Project: Inquisition
by Walkeroflonelyroads
Summary: He is a rebel in a religiously rigid society, enjoying his freedom, to the ire of his House. But when he gets word that his sister is in danger, Maxwell Trevelyan personally travels to the Temple of Sacred Ashes - where his life would be changed forever, forcing him to question his own beliefs amidst a war for Thedas.
1. Opener

_"Oy, Trevelyan. Bring me my greaves, they're in the kitchen."_

 _The sunlight slanting in through the barracks' windows brought with it the heat of summer, the humidity ferocious, a thin film of sweat already on his brow even though it was barely mid-morning. Last night's cold was worse, biting deep into his bones, his thin blanket barely enough to keep him warm, adding to his inability to sleep._

 _As Mother would confide in him,_ "She blows hot, she blows cold, but Ostwick is a bitch either way. Maker help us."

 _That was one the rare moments Maxwell Trevelyan had heard his mother using inappropriate language. Somehow, instead of lowering his opinion of her, Maxwell always had newfound respect for Mother, a sane voice in the midst of the madness that was the nobility of Ostwick. He didn't mind her language; he himself was guilty of far numerous - and worse - curses. Not in Mother's presence, though, no._

She's a bitch. _A perfect way to describe the current situation._

 _He stood, dressed in a simple tunic and breeches, a pair of leather strips in his hand. Around him, his fellow templar trainees -_ former _fellow trainees, he reminded himself - were busy preparing for their initiation into the Templar Order proper, filling the barracks with the clanking of their armor and weapons. Swords were being sharpened, shields checked for cracks and dents, helms and chestpieces polished, and friendly ribbing exchanged. No one knew what the initiation entails, and the nervousness was palpable._

 _He alone stood out amongst the thirty or so soon-to-be templars. He had been busy too; instead for the initiation, however, he was packing to go home, his armor and sword returned to the armory, a disgraced trainee. Not that he was complaining; he had been wanting out of the templars ever since he was forced to join at the age of thirteen._

 _Three years - that was how long he'd been wanting to leave the Templars, and three more years to build up his hate towards his father._

 _Gerald Arroughs. That was the name of the arrogant prick who'd just called out to him. Son of Knight-Captain Arroughs, the head of the Templar Order in Ostwick. Maxwell had hated him since their first day in the barracks. Loudmouthed and a lout, Maxwell was of the private opinion that he wasn't fit to be a templar. In fact, he would fit right in in the downtown districts, where Maxwell was fond of visiting. But that was neither here nor there. What mattered right now was the insolent manner in which the prick had called out to him. Sure, they had their verbal conflicts in the past, but this was taking things too far. Maxwell placed the leather strips gently on top of his pack, turning to face Arroughs._

 _The din in the barracks quieted down as the trainees noticed what was going on, clearing the path between the two. The enmity between the two was well-known amongst them all, with some taking Arroughs' side against a pariah amongst his peers, a nonbeliever. Some of the others were more sympathetic towards Maxwell, but were too afraid to show it, lest they become shunned merely by being associated with him._

 _He didn't blame them one bit. This was a battle that he needed to fight on his own._

 _The silence stretched as Maxwell stared down the prick. Gerald Arroughs was easily a head taller than he was, and was fully armored save for his greaves. But Maxwell wasn't without a few tricks up his sleeve. He raised a hand, making sure everyone could see him, and swept imaginary dust off his shoulder._

 _"No."_

 _The single word seemed to echo around the spacious room. Though it was sunny, a few of the trainees shivered as though the word had brought winter itself into the barracks. Some shifted uncomfortably, the rough circle of trainees around Arroughs whispering uncertainly to their leader._

 _Arroughs shoved the closest templar away from him roughly, Brea. She stumbled and nearly fell over, the venomous look she cast at her lover lost on him as the Knight-Captain's son stepped forward menacingly, his mailed hands slowly curling into fists._

 _"What did you just say to me?"_

 _Maxwell laughed, long and loud, the sound entirely at odds with the tension of the situation._

 _"What's so funny about this, Trevelyan?"_

 _Maxwell chortled, holding his hands out to the side. "Nothing, really, except the fact that you think you can push me around, Arroughs. I'm not a trainee anymore, remember? You have no authority over me," Maxwell bowed slightly, his tone becoming mocking. "My Lord."_

 _Linnea's hand on his shoulder. "Max... don't do it."_

 _Linnea, Zachary, Portos. His friends, amongst the very few he had. He turned his head slightly to meet their eyes. "Thanks, you three. I appreciate everything, but this is something I need to handle before I go."_

 _Arroughs was grinding his teeth, his hand on the pommel of his sword. He'd chucked his shield to one of his lackeys, who was placing it gently on Arrough's bed, making sure not a ding was on it. Brea had vanished, probably to notify the Knight-Captain what was going on. It mattered little to Maxwell._

 _He didn't care anymore._

 _He took a step forward, Linnea's hand sliding off his shoulder. He rubbed his hands together, his eyebrows raised, tone still mocking. "Oh, forgot about that, Lord Arroughs? Why, I believe your mind is more occupied on more important matters. Finally becoming a templar, congratulations, by the way. Goes to show that they'll take anyone in nowadays, even the dumb ones."_

 _"Don't you dare speak of my father, you fucking peasant!" Arroughs managed to spit past his teeth, his fingers tightening on the hilt of his sword._

 _"Ah, the eloquence of language. I'm afraid I can't understand you, my Lord, as I_ am _but a humble peasant," Maxwell bowed again mockingly. "You wouldn't hurt a peasant for not understanding what you said now, would you, my Lord? After all, you -"_

 _The sound of a sword being drawn. Arroughs leveled his blade at Maxwell, sunlight gleaming off its edge, the flames on the sigil of the Templar Order seemingly come to life._

 _"Fuck you, peasant."_

 _He charged._

 _Maxwell smiled. He'd goaded that bastard. Now to take him apart._

 _He stepped aside at the last minute, the blade cutting the air where he was. In that split-second, he could see his own eyes in the blade, reflected, a pale blue._

I have no regrets. What I've done up to now, all of them were my own decisions.

 _Then the beet-red face of that prick, eyes widening as he realized he'd fallen for the oldest trick in the book._

 _Maxwell pushed his body forward, raising his knee. It connected with the prick's chestpiece, and since he was off-balance from the sword-thrust, Maxwell's attack sent him sprawling, bouncing off a bed or two, dropping his sword. A lance of pain shot through Maxwell's knee, but he welcomed the pain. He raised his fists, settling into a fighting stance as Arroughs pushed himself up from the ground, the weight of his armor slowing him down._

 _"Ah, the Lord is not beyond harming those beneath his station!"_

 _Arroughs yelled, arms outstretched, intending to tackle Maxwell to the ground. Maxwell ducked and moved forward, himself charging into Arrough's exposed knees, nearly flipping him over. The prick grunted as he hit the ground once more in a heap. Maxwell looked down at the prick, brushing himself off before stepping over him and heading for his bed, where his pack was._

The humiliation was probably enough, _Maxwell figured._

 _The clanking of armor was the only warning he had before the prick was on him._

 _Maxwell jumped forward and twisted in mid-air, but the prick's hand shot out, grabbing his wrist. Maxwell planted a boot in Arrough's chest, and kicked him in the face with the other. The nose piece of the helm bent inward, and a snapping sound told everyone present that Arrough's nose had probably been broken. The grip on his wrist lost, Maxwell landed on his feet, his eyes now hard._

 _Arroughs was groaning, his hands coming up to staunch the bleeding but was blocked by the mangled wreck that was his helm. Maxwell straddled him, the other trainees hurriedly backing away, pinning his arms to his sides, Arroughs roaring in pain. He fitted a finger under the edge of Arrough's helm, and unceremoniously tore it off Arrough's head, eliciting another roar of pain from the prick._

 _Arrough's face was bloody from the broken nose, and it appeared he may have lost some teeth as well. He bucked, trying to throw Maxwell off, but Maxwell held on like a hungry bloodbug on a raging bull._

 _Maxwell leant in close to Arrough's ear. "This is for all the people around you who you have mistreated. Thinking you're the shit, you're the son of the Knight-Captain, that you could do as you please? You do know," Maxwell smiled slowly, drawing his lips back, a feral smile. "When you push hard enough, someone would push back? Knight-Sergeant Melvin, lesson three. I am the one who pushes back, you fucking prick. Now lie there and take it, like everyone did when you pushed them around."_

 _And, to the growing horror of the trainees in the barracks, Maxwell gloved his fist with Arrough's helm, and got to work._


	2. Rude Awakening

Drip.

Drip.

He came to slowly, cobwebs of a fuzzy dream being drawn aside by the hand of the waking world. Too slowly, he realized. _Hahren_ Aravel trained him to awaken almost instantly from a state of deep sleep to combat readiness, and this was a pretty poor performance for a student of the survival arts. His hands refused to answer to his will, and there was an uncomfortable sort of cold in his joints.

He kept his eyes closed as he relied on his other senses to detect the environment around him.

Drip.

Drip.

A breath. Several breaths, at least four, deep, as if in fear. Definitely not the breathing of an animal. Man, then. Or elf. A crunching sound, as a boot landed on the stone floor. Oh yes, a stone floor. He was in an upright position, knees against the cold stone. He flexed his fingers, and tried moving his hands once more. His wrists encountered resistance - he was cuffed. Bar cuffs, most likely, judging by the way he was unable to bring his wrists together.

So. From all he'd felt and heard, he was a prisoner in the dungeon of a keep somewhere. Four guards, all in the same room as him; three more than the usual for a prisoner, unless...

The prisoner was particularly dangerous. Or a mage. In which case, the guards would be templars. But he wasn't a mage. Eve was, yes, but what did she have to do -

 _Eve._

The thought of his elder sister brought fresh questions to the forefront of his mind.

 _How did I get here?_

He remembered hearing about the Conclave between the mages and the templars. The Temple of Something-Something, in the Frostbacks in Ferelden. He rode to the base of the Frostbacks - bitch of a journey, having to cross the Waking Sea via Kirkwall - and then...

What?

He must have hiked up the Frostbacks. But what happened after that? He racked his brains, trying to recall. Like an artist who had deliberately left a section of his canvas blank, devoid of pigment, causing the painting to be incomplete, there was a blank spot in his memory, which didn't allow him to have the complete idea of ho -

A bright flash of green, so bright it pierced the dark of his eyelids. At the same time, he felt a sharp pain in his left palm; it was as if someone had stabbed a dagger through it, then twisted the blade in his flesh. It was so sudden, he had no time to prepare, and an involuntary cry of pain issued past his dry lips.

As quickly as the pain came, it subsided. No after-throbbing. A sharp pain, then nothing. He panted, realized he was holding his breath. The light was gone too, at the same time. What was happening to him? A torture technique by a mage? But who was holding him? What did they want?

 _What in the name of the Beyond is going on?_

He opened his eyes, slowly. At this point, his cry of pain would have signaled to his captors that he was awake anyway.

His assumptions were correct. He was on a stone floor, on his knees, and, yup, bar cuffs holding his hands far apart. The room was dimly-lit; a pair of guards stood in front of him on either side, their blades out, pointing right at him. The other two must be behind him, then, blades out as well. Four blades. He looked up at the two guards directly ahead; they stared back at him, eyes wary, bodies tense. Something has them spooked, and it was... him?

Or... he rotated his left hand in the cuff, looking down at the callused skin on his palm. Nothing out of the ordinary. Where then, did the light and pain come from?

As if to answer his question, the pain came. It tore into his flesh, and even though he had an inkling that it was coming, it still robbed him of his breath. A flash of green light - it was coming from his palm! The pain radiated up his forearm, and he gritted his teeth against it, making a fist of his left hand. Again, it left as soon as it came, and he exhaled explosively.

Before he could comprehend what he saw, a door directly ahead swung open, a rectangle of bright light in a previously-dark wall, the silhouette of a woman outlined by torchlight. As she entered the room, her pace quickening as she noticed that he was awake, the guards sheathed their swords and assumed a ready stance.

Their commander, then.

She came into the light. He had but a moment to glimpse her face, but he could make out an angry scar across a cheek, short dark hair, and eyes that burned, eyebrows drawn together in a frown. The light slid across her body, her armor, as she circled him, an eye on a sun, rays spreading outward. The heraldry was present on both the front and back of her armor.

He felt a chill run down his spine. A Seeker of Truth.

She was behind him now, looking at him from all angles. He could feel her breath as she leaned down next to his left ear, and said in a voice that shook of barely-restrained anger, "Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now."

 _What?_

Another person coming into the light in front of him, this one slowing to a stop before him, allowing him to see her better than the first. Chainmail over leather, an ashen purple hood. Blue eyes, partly hidden behind red bangs that seemed to dance in the torchlight, over high cheekbones, full red lips.

 _She's pretty,_ he mused.

She crossed her arms, pressing her lips together, as the Seeker came back into his field of vision, wringing her hands. What she said next knocked the air clean out of his lungs.

"The Conclave is _destroyed_. Everyone who attended is _dead_. Except," she lowered a gauntleted fist, pointing right at his heart with all the authority of fate itself, her voice dripping venom.

"For _you."_

 _Destroyed? What? I survived? I don't understand any of this. What's going on?_

The Seeker grabbed his wrist roughly, holding it up to his eye level, dragging his right hand along with it. She shook his wrist like a bone in a mongrel's jaws, causing the cuffs to jangle. "Explain this!" She was practically spitting now, fury making her hand tremble; he could feel it through her iron grip.

And, right on time, the sickly green glow and pain came once more. This time, though, the pain wasn't as bad. He bit the inside of his cheek as he wondered how to answer the Seeker's question. What was this thing on his hand? It looked magical. And yet, he was no mage.

A furious Seeker. He decided to tell the truth.

"I..." His throat was dry. He coughed once before continuing. "I... can't! I don't know what this is."

His answer seemed to infuriate the Seeker further; she shoved his hand away roughly, the action almost throwing him off-balance. He had to jam his knee painfully into the floor to prevent himself from tipping over.

"What do you mean, you can't!?"

She had her hand on the pommel of her sword now. He protested. "I don't know what this is, or how it got there. I just came to the Conclave for my sis -"

"YOU'RE LYING!"

The Seeker's face, mere inches from his own, as she dug her fingers into his shoulders. Teeth bared, animalistic, eyes promising death, reason almost out of reach, breath hot on his face -

The second woman put a hand across the Seeker's chest, pulling her away from him. "We need him, Cassandra." Her tone was authoritative, calm, a warning to the Seeker. And he was slightly grateful for her pulling away this half-crazed Seeker from him; she didn't even spare him a moment to explain himself!

She turned back to look at him, her blue eyes hard. The Seeker, Cassandra, leant against the far wall, a hand on her hip, drawing the other across her eyes.

"I'm not entirely sure what's going on here," he said tentatively, hoping that this second woman was a lot more agreeable.

"Do you remember what happened? How this began?"

Her voice, strident, brusque. He could sense urgency in her tone, something that was bothering the two of them, all of them, the guards sneaking looks at him. What the Seeker said. Something happened to the Conclave.

* * *

 _Gloom. The dark was there wherever he looked, turned in all directions. Sickly green fog, wafting into his field of vision and out again, all around him, obscuring even the ground he was on. Dark shapes loomed in the gloom, many times taller than he was, but try as he might to see, he could make out no distinguishable features._

 _A featureless landscape, cloaked in perpetual night: it made the hairs on his arm stand on end. Something felt very wrong with this place, and yet it felt familiar, somehow. Like he was here before._

 _A hand on his arm; he started, sword halfway out of its sheath before he realized it was Lana, her expression on of pure terror as she beheld her surroundings._

"Setheneran..." _she whispered, drawing close to him. He wrapped a hand around her shoulders and pulled her into a comforting hug, she burying her head in his chest, trembling. What she said reminded him of the times he was asleep, and was dreaming._

 _They were in the Fade._

 _He turned, looking all around him once more, now that he had a plausible explanation for where they were. Lana had regained her composure somewhat, drawing her bow and nocking an arrow. He drew his sword._

 _"Be ready for anything," he whispered, though it was apparent they were alone. She nodded tightly, eyes darting._

 _White. It caught his eye easily, something different in the sea of green and grey. He nudged Lana with an elbow. "See that?"_

 _With no other option, they began to head for the light. It was a disorienting experience; with no indicator of the path ahead, he half-expected them to walk right off a cliff or something. The stories he'd heard about the Fade only fueled his paranoia, his eyes looking everywhere for danger, sword leading._

 _"How are we in the Beyond?" asked Lana._

 _"I'm not sure, Lana. Maybe that light's the way out."_

 _"If this is truly the Beyond, then I'm grateful that you're here next to me, Max."_

 _He squeezed her shoulder. "Me too, Ellana. Me too."_

 _They drew closer. Maxwell noticed that the light had reshaped itself into the form of a woman, all white. Her head was oddly shaped though; he realized with a jolt that he'd seen that outline before. Sisters in the Chantry, a Revered Mother. Their headgear, wedge-shaped, silly-looking._

 _Steps. The light, the Sister of the Chantry, was at the top of a flight of steps. They appeared out of nowhere from the gloom, Maxwell accidentally stubbing his toes on the bottom-most step, nearly falling over, Lana's hand shooting out to steady him. "You lead."_

 _He took the first step, Lana aiming her arrow behind them, watching._

 _"Who goes there?"_

 _He spun, Lana's strong voice carrying across the empty space. A stumbling figure, robes, staff in hand. As the figure drew closer, Maxwell could recognize the pattern in the robes; he'd helped Evelyn pick that pattern when she went shopping for cloth for her Circle robes. "Wait, Lana. That's Evelyn! My sister!"_

 _Evelyn's robes were torn, blood streaked across her face, her eyes wild. "Run, Max! RUN!"_

* * *

"I remember... running. There were things, chasing me." He shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position for his knees. "Then... a woman? I think."

"A woman?" The second woman's voice was tinged with surprise, her eyes widening. The Seeker had returned to the little circle, arms crossed, disapproval on her face.

"She... reached out to me. But then..."

The Seeker gestured with a hand. "Go to the forward camp, Leliana." Her voice was low, now that she'd calmed down some. "I will take him to the rift."

Leliana nodded uncertainly, wanting to hear more, but she complied, turning and leaving. Maxwell almost wanted to shout at her, to ask her not to leave him in the presence of this intimidating Seeker -

\- who knelt before him and freed him from his cuffs.

Maxwell rubbed his wrists, the cold steel leaving their mark. _Rift? What is she talking about?_ His relief was short-lived, however, as she expertly wound leather strips around his wrists, tying them together.

He needed answers to all these questions, and he needed them now, the reason he woke up in a dungeon, threatened with death for apparently causing the destruction of the Conclave. She may be antagonistic towards him, but so far she was probably the only person who could provide him with information. He inhaled, then asked. "What _did_ happen, Seeker Cassandra?"

The Seeker's face was troubled as she helped him to his feet, the guards leaving the room at the flick of her finger. She seemed uncertain, lips moving soundlessly as she tried to explain to him what she'd seen.

At length, the Seeker gave up, simply saying, as she led him to the door, "It... will be easier to show you."


	3. The Wrath Of The Heavens

Maxwell didn't know what to expect as the Seeker - _Cassandra, right?_ \- led him out into the open air, the light almost blinding after the dark of the prison. He squeezed his eyes shut, raising his bound hands - with much difficulty and awkwardness - to block some of the light, lowering them as his vision adjusted. Something was off, though - the light of the outside world was tinged with a sickly shade of green.

Just like the flash on his palm moments earlier.

He wondered how he got here, to this point in time, in life. He'd always stayed out of the Chantry's way ever since leaving Ostwick, running with the Misfits. Yes, he'd righteously killed rogue templars who'd been threatening the local populace like bandits - he didn't see them as templars anymore, just bullies using religion to prey on the weak - but here, the Frostbacks, how did he get here?

How did he end up the prisoner of this Seeker?

Evelyn Trevelyan. His older sister by three years, heir to the House of Trevelyan in Ostwick. He'd heard about the whole mage-templar conflict while the Misfits were in Antiva, right after they'd battled a small group of Antivan Crows outside Seleny. He still felt guilty, leaving her behind with Mother to deal with his fath - _the Bann_ , years ago, but he knew Eve would understand. She always knew what he was thinking, growing up.

That was why here was here in Ferelden. He remembered parting ways with the Misfits - _just for this short while,_ he'd told them - and made it here. Ellana accompanied him, the Dalish elf sternly telling him that she owed him for saving her life, and so with great reluctance he'd let her tag along. Privately, though, he was grateful for the company. Among the Misfits, Ellana was the one he was closest to.

So, the Temple of... Sacred Ashes. He remembered now, the name of the place the Conclave was due to take place. The place where Andraste's remains were allegedly laid to rest. He didn't really buy into that story. The Chantry always had a way of painting a brighter picture of events than they really seemed.

The Temple. Now the holiest of holy places for the Maker's faithful to pay their respects - he nearly snorted at the thought. _Self-serving pricks, the whole lot of them._ Enough coin to refurbish a temple in the middle of fucking nowhere, while the poor remained poor, working their arses off to be paid a pittance, barely enough to get by.

A deep rumble, echoing around the mountains. He shook his head to clear it, taking in his surroundings. He'd emerged from a stone prison, apparently at the edge of a village, or small town; he could see stone buildings two- or three-deep around him, winding paths leading to more buildings behind him, obscured. Snow everywhere, his breath frosting in the cold. The same leather armor he was wearing since traveling to Ferelden from Antiva, the insides padded with fur, kept his body warm, but his hands and feet were freezing. He stamped his feet to keep warm, bringing his hands up to his face, cupping them around this mouth and nose.

Soldiers were running about ahead in disarray, clad in brown and green. Their armor and helms were of a design he'd never seen before, the Seekers' sigil, a flaming eye, engraved on each cuirass. _Wait -_ he squinted. _Not quite._ The sigils had a sword through the flaming eye. It was as if someone had taken the Seeker's mark and the Templar Order's symbol and put them together. _Some sort of new holy order? What for?_

The soldiers shouted to each other, the situation chaotic, grabbing swords and shields, testing bowstrings, helping fellow wounded soldiers along. Some paused to salute the Seeker as she led him down the road; she grabbed one by the arm, his tunic of a different color, maroon. "Sergeant, anything from the rift?"

The breathless man sucked in a few precious breaths before he spoke, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Nay, Seeker Pentaghast! The last of the soldiers have withdrawn a turn of the glass ago; they're all around you. There's naught out there but the cold and the blasted demons. No word from the scouting party."

The Seeker frowned. _Cassandra Pentaghast, huh?_ Maxwell had heard vaguely of the Pentaghasts. Aren't they the royal family of Nevarra?

"My thanks, sergeant. Organize the men; any able-bodied soldier are to be ready to defend Haven at a moment's notice."

The sergeant slapped a closed fist against his chest. "At once, Seeker Pentaghast!"

Maxwell struggled to keep pace with the Seeker's long strides, feeling a dull ache in his bones. Another deep rumble echoed around the mountains, and a flash of green from above, casting dark green shadows of everyone and everything on the ground.

Maxwell looked up.

He'd seen his fair share of odd happenings in the world, all thanks to his time with the Misfits. He'd seen enough magic in Ostwick and beyond that he could tell the 'good' magic from the 'bad.' He thought nothing could surprise him anymore, get past his mental defenses to leave him openmouthed in shock.

He was wrong.

The tallest peak of the Frostbacks was to his left. The sky above it roiled with greenish fey magic, dark clouds churned into a vortex, a stream of the same fey magic swirling up into it from a point behind the mountain. Multitudes of rock and rubble appear to have broken off the mountain, suspended in the magic stream, bobbing slightly. The center of the vortex pulsed; he could feel it in his bones, an unearthly sort of... _vibration_ , that gave him a sense of dread. A faint sound came from the direction of the vortex, constant, never-fading, yet didn't rise above the other noises around them, background.

The best he could describe it was a constant sort of rumbling, like boulders tumbling down the side of a mountain.

It was as if the gods were angry at this world, the wrath of the heavens themselves. If he believed in gods, that is. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen, heard or experienced. One thing he was aware of, though, was how... _off_ that phenomena felt. Wrong. Unnatural. This wasn't part of the world. To his right, the sun, a royal-sized orb at this time of the day, hung low over the mountains, its rays diminished compared to the light that escaped the vortex.

"We call it 'the Breach,'" said the Seeker, next to him, her gaze fixed on the vortex. "It's a massive rift into the world of demons that grow larger with each passing hour." She gestured around them with a gauntleted hand. "It's not the only such rift. Just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave."

 _A magical explosion?_

This was wrong, just wrong. Maxwell closed his eyes; the feeling of just plain _wrongness_ persisted, lingered, even in the dark confines of his own head. Eve's magic didn't feel like this. Those apostates the Misfits had encountered, their magic didn't feel like this either. Heck, even Dalish blood magic felt like a gentle caress compared to the rough, unadulterated blast of magic he felt now. And the Seeker's saying there's more of them, rifts, tears in the Veil leading to the Fade?

"Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world," the Seeker stated bluntly, glancing at him.

"What... what did happen, Seeker?"

"Everything was fine. At first. Mages and templars, making their way to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Then, a huge explosion -"

* * *

 _"Max? Is that you?"_

 _The mages clustered around Eve, holding their staves high, prepared to fend him off. Behind him, he heard_ sniksniksniksnisnniiik _as the templars drew their swords, thuds as they rammed their shields into the ground, forming a shield wall, one of them calling out a challenge._

 _Eve pushed at the staves, calling out. "Stand down, fellow mages! Stand down, templars! That's my brother!"_

 _A bright flash of green light from ahead, everyone crying out in surprise, the mages in terror as they felt it -_

* * *

"- simply obliterated the Temple. No one's left alive for at least two miles around."

Maxwell held his hands up to his temple, a dull ache. He remembered slightly, a fragment of a memory, the feel of Eve's hand in his as the bright green wave came barreling down the mountain towards them.

"Prisoner? Are you alright?"

Maxwell opened his eyes. He was imagining it, surely; the Seeker, who just moments ago was threatening to kill him, was now looking at him in concern, brow furrowed, a hand almost up to his shoulder. He shook his head. "Not really. I have this... memory, but I can't really -"

The Breach pulsed violently. He felt it; the Seeker recoiled, her head whipping around, the thunderclap loud across the landscape. The heart of the vortex brightened in an instant, discharging a wave of magic that spread outwards. An agony the likes of which Maxwell had never felt before tore through his hand, a white-hot blade stabbing into his palm, twisting, rending his flesh. He cried out in pain, dropping to his knees, pressing his hand into his stomach, the ghastly green magic spilling out from the gaps between his fingers, his fist closed.

The pain, it was everywhere. It lanced up his arm, through his chest - it felt ice-cold when it stabbed through his heart - went down his body, through his legs, his other arm, spearing into his head. He gasped at the suddenness of it, paralyzed. For a moment he saw things that weren't there, through the tears of pain in his eyes: a ghostly figure behind the Seeker, raising a hand, showing him its own palm, a single slit, bright green blood pouring from the wound -

The pain subsided, racing back to his palm, leaving him feeling cold, as though he'd just jumped into a brook on a warm summer's day. He shivered violently, his fingers twitching; he couldn't stop them. Wisps of fey magic floated away from his closed fist.

"Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads. And it is killing you."

The voice of the Seeker soft in his ear as she supported him, pulled him up once more, her touch surprisingly gentle. Maxwell let himself be pulled up; it felt as though his legs were marshmallow in a fire, soft. The truth of the Seeker's words, he could feel: a cold ache throughout his body, his heart beating painfully slow, his ears ringing.

"Prisoner... it may be the key to stopping this, but there isn't much time. I... we... need your help."

The light faded from Maxwell's palm, the last of the pain going with it. He blinked the tears out of his eyes as his thoughts became his own once more. He looked up at the Seeker, his voice soft, throat raw.

"I... didn't choose to be here, Seeker. But with this... foul magic on my palm," he coughed. "I suppose... I have no choice, do I?"

The Seeker clamped a hand around his arm, leading him along. Her lips twisted, the softness in her eyes slipping away, the same hardness he'd seen in templars' eyes returning. "No. None of us had a choice."

* * *

As the Seeker marched him through the town, Maxwell noticed the townsfolk were paying him attention, gathering along the road the Seeker was leading him down, gazes none too friendly, a corridor of human bodies. The noise, from general background babble common in the town centers, slowly escalated to a deafening din, shouting, cursing. A tomato curved through the air; the Seeker pulled him to a side, the ripe vegetable landing with a wet splat on the hard-packed earth. Jeering, foul speech, all degrading him, despising him.

These people hated him. For what?

The Seeker spoke, as though reading his mind. "They have decided your guilt. They need it; the people of Haven mourn our most holy, Divine Justinia. The Conclave, it was a chance for - stand down, soldier!"

A soldier up ahead stepped back into line, sheathing his sword with a _snap_ , his eyes burning holes in Maxwell as he passed. A commoner stepped into their path, spat at Maxwell's feet, and disappeared into the crowd. It occurred to Maxwell that the Seeker's presence was the only thing keeping him alive right now. These people wanted blood.

"It was a chance for peace between mages and templars. She brought their leaders together! Now, they're dead. We lash out, like the sky. But we must think beyond ourselves, as she did! Until the Breach is sealed."

The Seeker led him down a stony, winding path, the crowds thinning, ending in a checkpoint, wooden gates made of stout trunks, a gate to the outside. The doors creaked open as they approached, soldiers saluting; a stone bridge beyond, leading the way out of the town proper.

As they stepped across the threshold, the Seeker stopped, turning to face him. She drew a dagger from her back. "Now that we're out of Haven..."

Maxwell felt a stab of fear. The Seeker's expression has not changed as the blade inched closer. _Didn't she say she needed me to close that thing? Or has she changed her mind?_

Before he could ponder further, the Seeker grabbed hold of his bonds, slipping the blade between them, cutting him free, his hands coming apart.

She looked at him. Blue-grey eyes.

"There... will be a trial. I can promise no more. Come. It is not far."

* * *

"Seeker?"

"Yes, prisoner?"

He winced slightly. "My name is Maxwell, Seeker."

"Prisoner. So far, that's all you are to me, to the people."

He sighed. They were trudging along a road that ran parallel to the town's low stone walls, heading right for that tear in the sky, the Breach. A snowflake landed on Maxwell's nose; he pressed it into his skin irritably, a dribble of water. "Very well then, Seeker. I must ask, though, how does this... thing on my palm tie in with the rifts you mentioned?"

"We think your mark may be the key to closing the rifts," explained the Seeker. She'd retrieved her shield from a soldier before they ventured forth, an ornate affair, the Seeker's eye looking out at her enemies. She hefted it easily as though it weighed nothing. "But we cannot be certain. Hence, your mark must be tested on something smaller than the Breach. Our hope is that, somehow, if you can close a rift, you can close the Breach as well."

" _We_ , Seeker?"

"You'll see. Up ahead."

They walked in silence for a while, slowing their pace as the road began to curve upwards, a gentle gradient. "You still think I'm guilty, Seeker? You think I did this," he showed her his palm. "To myself?"

That troubled look, the Seeker biting her bottom lip, brow furrowed, a look Maxwell was familiar with. It's the look of person who'd committed to a plan, only to doubt it halfway through. Unconvinced. Uncertain. One small slip and the entire thing would come down around them, a house of cards.

"Not... intentionally. Something... clearly went wrong. Whatever it was."

"And if I'm not, Seeker? I still go to the trial? With no defense?"

"Someone is responsible. And right now," the Seeker gestured with her shield arm. "You're our only suspect."

A bark of laughter escaped Maxwell, the ludicrousness of it getting to him. "Me, a non-mage! That's rich, Seeker. So this is how far the Chantry has fallen? Judge, jury and executioner to a poor sap who happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, death? Without listening to his explanation first, yelling into his face, when all he wanted was to find his mage sister, to see that she's safe here in the midst of all the templars? Who himself has no idea what in the name of the Beyond is going on!" Maxwell chuckled. "All you Chantry types only care about is the welfare of the Chantry itself! The great name of the most holy of organizations dedicated to the Maker! _The great, almighty Maker!_ And if the person standing in the way of maintaining the Chantry's image in the eyes of the people is small enough, unimportant enough, you'd simply wipe them off the face of Thedas! The Maker approves, right? _Righteous,_ " he spat the last word.

The Seeker was silent, her hand on the pommel on her sword, her jaw tight, movements carefully controlled.

Maxwell didn't really care at this point. All those years of carefully keeping out of the Chantry's way, gone, just like that. And this magical mark, whatever the Beyond it was, brought him right back in, against his will. And he would most probably die because of it, trial or otherwise. A life of leisure, planned well ahead of time, dashed, gone with the wind.

 _Well-played,_ he looked up at the sky. _If it's you who's making things work. Payback for me being an unbeliever, eh?_

As if in answer his blasphemous thoughts, the vortex pulsed once more. Though expecting it, Maxwell still uttered a cry as the same white-hot pain tore through his hand. He refused to let it overpower him though, merely bending his knees instead of falling over. He gritted his teeth, gripping his left wrist with his right hand.

"You..." he growled at the mark. "Are... fucking... ANNOYING! Begone!"

And it did.

Maxwell stumbled a little, panting from the effort. Whether it was indeed his own will that stopped the mark, or the magic ending at that exact moment, he couldn't tell. A hand on his elbow, the Seeker keeping him upright, her grip surprisingly soft. For a fleeting moment, he caught a look of pity on her face before it became impassive once more.

"The pulses are coming faster now," she commented, clapping him on the arm gently. "Come."

They continued down the road, flashes of green coming from Maxwell's closed fist the whole time. "The larger the Breach grows, the more rifts appear. And the more demons we face. We've been receiving reports from all over Thedas. Rifts in Ferelden, along the Imperial Highway. Orlais. Nevarra. Even as far as Antiva."

They jogged a little, coming to another stone bridge that hung over a frozen river below. A soldier hailed the Seeker as they approached, opening the gates to let them pass. More soldiers lined both sides of the bridge, some grunting in pain, nursing bandaged wounds. Some were lying far too still to be alive. Chants of Light filled the air, soldiers praying even as their eyes were glued to the unholy light above them. Maxwell glanced at them in disdain.

"Just a little more. Behind this hill, and up a flight of -" began the Seeker.

A thunderclap.

Someone screamed.

The Seeker leaping at him, angling her shield behind her.

"GET DOWN!"


	4. The Rift

Maxwell blinked. He was still alive.

He pushed himself off the ground, nearly slipping as he stood. _Ice?_

He looked up. The bridge had collapsed, and they'd fallen onto the frozen river. He marveled at the thickness of the ice - barely a scratch, despite the heavy stones that had impacted it. The same couldn't be said of the soldiers, though; groans of pain and death rattles reached his ears as he pivoted in place carefully, looking all around him.

He was unharmed, in the midst of the death around him, many soldiers crushed by the heavy stones. Some of the stones still shone with a faint green outline, the traces of magic. The Seeker was a short way away, pushing herself up, her shield thudding on the ice.

"Damned Breach," he heard her mutter. A bolt of magic must have hit the bridge, collapsing it. How he was unharmed, Maxwell didn't know. _Simply lucky, I guess._

He moved himself carefully to where she was, gently kicking splinters of wooden crates aside, spying swords and bows among the debris, freshly-fletched arrows in brand-new quivers. He realized with a jolt that all the while they were traveling from the town, he hadn't gotten himself a weapon. _Sloppy, Max._ Hahren _Aravel would strongly disapprove._

He shook his head, snorting at his foolishness, reaching for a bow. His weapon of choice.

A streak of green in his peripheral vision. Maxwell snatched up the bow, grabbing a handful of arrows, the ice under his feet juddering as the ball of green fire struck the ice about ten steps away, doubtless from the Breach itself. _Great. First a mark on my hand that hurts whenever that thing erupts, and now it's spitting fireballs at me?_ He kept wary eyes on that spot, tugging slightly on the bowstring, testing the bow.

The ice where the fireball had struck bubbled, then turned black. A sound, like breaking glass. The hairs on Maxwell's arms stood as what appeared to be several shards of broken glass poked through the black, except they were green in color. _Fey magic._ A claw emerged from the mass of spiky… things, the shade - for what else could it be, a creature of the Beyond? - hauling itself out, spindly arms ending in talons that would shame an hawk's. It had no face, but seemed to look right at him.

It emitted a sound that no creature of this world would make, and charged.

The hunter inside him took over, without conscious thought. He nocked an arrow and drew the bow in a single move, lowering himself onto the ice, placing his knee on the cold surface. Before he could loose the arrow however, aimed for the shade's throat, the Seeker stepped forward and, with a single stroke of her longsword, cleaved it in half. She half-turned her head as several more grotesque forms emerged from the mass of spikes, and shouted above the unholy noises they were making, "Stay behind me!"

Battle. He knew his place on the field – on the outer edges, skirting the battle, he and Ellana singling out targets, their arrows unerringly accurate. He was quite comfortable heeding the Seeker's demand as she charged, her shield before her, batting a shade aside with a painful _thunk_. The shade roared – and fell dead as two arrows sprouted from its back, piercing through its torso from the front.

Whichever shade the Seeker missed, or was circling around to strike at her from behind, was rapidly put down by Maxwell, his aim true, the draw of the bow a little less than he was used to, but it didn't matter at this distance, so close. He grabbed more arrows, holding them in his left hand alongside the bow, as the Seeker adopted a wide stance, yelling into the face of a demon, this one wispy green, its form a head and torso, no legs. It reached out, green magic spilling from its hands. The Seeker raised her shield – the magic seemed to dissipate before it could touch the ornate eye.

Seekers. The ultimate templars. Maxwell nearly forgot that little detail – they were the exact opposite of a mage. Denial of magic. A powerful tool.

Maxwell loosed his last arrow, striking a shade in the arm, the Seeker finishing it off by lopping off its head. As he bent to retrieve more arrows, he felt cold steel against his neck, the Seeker's voice, harsh, a warning.

"Drop your weapon. Now."

The edge pressed into his skin. Maxwell knew from experience that a slight turn of the Seeker's wrist, and he'll be bleeding out, choking on his own blood. He needed the bow - the demon attack was proof the road to the Breach was a dangerous one - but maybe there was a way he could keep it without further antagonizing the Seeker.

He raised his hands slowly. "If it pleases you," he said, keeping his voice level, opening his fingers, the bow clattering onto the ice. "Though, as you can see, there are demons along the way to wherever you're taking me, Seeker. I don't think you can protect me if there are more of them than what we've just defeated."

The blade twitched; the Seeker said nothing. Maxwell held his breath, feeling the cold as water seeped into the knees of his trousers.

The blade left his neck.

Maxwell risked an upwards glance; the Seeker had withdrawn her sword. She seemed hesitant, not knowing what to do next, her eyes on him, biting on her lip.

At length, she spoke. "I… well. I...should remember that you didn't run. And that you came along, somewhat willingly. Very well, Maxwell. Take what you need." She sighed, sheathing her sword.

Maxwell inclined his head. "My thanks, Seeker."

He appropriated whatever he could from the remnants of the crates strewn around them, strapping a pair of long knives to his thighs; a quiver with as many intact arrows as he could get his hands on went onto his back; a small dagger at his hip. He contemplated on taking a sword, then shook his head. They needed to pick up the pace, and a sword would slow him down.

"Maker be with you."

The Seeker was closing the eyes of a soldier whom Maxwell presumed had just died, his hand falling limply from the Seeker's. He looked around, suddenly feeling a flash of guilt. About twenty men in all, all of them dead, crushed by rocks. None of them moved.

Maxwell lowered his head in respect. But there was little else he could do for these men. He nodded silently at the Seeker, who took point once more, leading them up an embankment, back to solid ground, winding closer to that unholy inferno in the sky.

* * *

 _Grey overhead, rumbling, the afternoon light fading as he walked down the beach, staring out over the waves, the smell of salt in his nose. Far away as they were, he could hear his comrades' conversation by the fire, Orinna gleefully pouring another one of her alchemical mixtures on the flames as Haron back away as quickly as he could without getting up. He sensed the flaring of the fire, a brief orange glow on the sand in front of him, and smiled. Telana's peals of laughter were like honey, sweet to his ears.  
_

 _He cast his eyes over the waves once more, his smile fading, a light rain beginning to fall, peppering his face with warm drops. He felt torn - he was supposed to be back home, fighting those wretched darkspawn! He wondered how Kordillus and his people were doing; he'd discussed the matter with his close friend over dinner days ago, the unity of their peoples against the black tide. Drakon was agreeable to it, despite knowing of the undercurrent of the elves' distrust of him._

And yet... _Ameridan closed his eyes, feeling the rain on his cheeks. Yet, foul magic called him here, a danger that he cannot ignore. So here he was, while the darkspawn encroached upon Orlais' borders. He dearly wished to end this problem now, quickly, so that he may enter the fray alongside his friend. And perhaps erode that distrust between the humans and elves as they did so._

 _He spoke, as much as himself as to the wind, believing the winds would bring his words to the Maker-Bride, and to Ghilan'nain, Halla-Mother, and from there to Kordillus. His voice was low, unspoiled by any magical effect or his current mood, but as soon as the words left his lips, Ameridan could feel the air thrumming with power._

 _"I dislike being so far from home. Halamshiral needs me. The darkspawn have grown stronger. Some of my brothers would let those creatures destroy Orlais. They think Drakon no better than the Imperium."_

 _He sighed, holding his hand out, cupping it, a small pool of rain in his palm._

 _"But if we do not stand with the humans against the darkspawn," he turned his hand over, the tiny pool of water pouring into the sand. "We might lose everything we have gained."_

 _Ameridan closed his hand into a fist, showing it to the sky._

 _"I will fight this Avvar-dragon for you, Kordillus. And then... and then, we shall drive back the darkspawn together."_

* * *

"All your soldiers... they are back at Haven, Seeker?"

"Not all of them. Some are still ahead, at the forward camp, fighting. Otherwise... they may be scattered about. I am uncertain. The explosion has caused quite a bit of chaos."

Maxwell nodded, understanding. It was common for soldiers to be separated from the main group in battle, off to the side, fighting their own small skirmishes. If the explosion was as large as the Seeker had described, it was all but guaranteed there will be pockets of soldiers about, becoming desperate as their supplies dwindled.

The Seeker panted, sword arm folded awkwardly in front of her, most unusual. Maxwell stopped and turned to look - a slash of red, about the length of a hand, crossed the Seeker's stomach, blood already staining the cloth underneath the armor. "You're injured, Seeker," he exclaimed, moving towards her. The Seeker tensed, Maxwell stopping in his tracks as he caught the movement.

She still didn't trust him.

"It looks superficial, Seeker. Just the thing a potion should take care of," he said, reaching for his belt. He'd found some potions by a body back at the river, an alchemist perhaps. Most of the alchemist's bottles had smashed, their contents freezing in the cold temperatures, painting the surface of the river an odd mix of red and yellow and green. He could tell which potion was what by simply smelling its contents - alchemy was a central part of _Hahren_ Aravel's teachings, and he'd poisoned himself on more than one occasion when he failed to detect them in the potion that _Hahren_ had him try and identify. Mother had been worried when he wouldn't stop having bellyaches for three days, and rushing to the outhouse every few hours. But she did ask _Hahren_ to train him.

The Seeker was still wary of him, her eyes veiled, her lips twisted. Maxwell had seen that sort of wound before, a slash across the belly. It was fortunate that it was not longer, or deeper, else the Seeker would have been dealing with enormous blood loss. As it is, her wound was causing her to slow, the Seeker pushing through her pain. It would only be a matter of time before she would slow to a stop, unable to continue.

If she wouldn't let him take care of her wound, that is. He understood her caution; he was still her prisoner, after all, albeit a prisoner with no bonds, and several weapons strapped to him, and a magical mark on his hand. But he felt indebted to the Seeker for protecting him from the townspeople back at Haven.

"Seeker, if I may? The pain will be gone soon. I promise it," he said gently, holding the bottle up, his other hand palm-first to the Seeker, showing no hostile intent.

The Seeker bit her lip, fighting a mental battle. Maxwell remained silent as she frowned, gripping the pommel of her sword, bent over slightly from the pain.

"Very... well. But don't take too long."

The Seeker set her shield down gently, easing herself down, her back against a rock. She sighed. "I needed a rest anyway," she added, glaring at Maxwell.

Maxwell smiled to himself as he uncorked the potion, dabbing some of the thick mixture onto his fingers. He knelt before the Seeker, peering at her wound -

He was suddenly, acutely, aware that he was very close to her. He could hear her breathe as she bent her head back, closing her eyes, hissing at the pain. He could feel her body's warmth as he brought his face close to her stomach, inspecting her wound -

He pushed the thoughts out of his mind, concentrating at the task at hand.

Indeed, the wound wasn't as bad as he'd feared. He warned the Seeker, his voice mild, "This may hurt a little, Seeker."

She grunted.

Maxwell gently touched his fingers to the wound.

The Seeker stiffened as Maxwell applied the potion to her wound, spreading it all around the slash. The Seeker arched her back, gritting her teeth. He pressed the bottle to her lips. "Drink, Seeker. It'll start working in a few moments."

She swallowed the vile concoction, her own hand coming up to take the bottle from Maxwell. She tossed it aside as soon as she was done, coughing up a storm from the taste, trying to get rid of it.

"Tastes like arse," she spat.

Maxwell arched an eyebrow at that statement. "It... tastes bad," clarified the Seeker. But the prisoner's words were true - already she could feel the pain ebbing. She reached with a finger to poke experimentally at her injury -

Firm grip on her wrist. "Nope, you don't want to do that, Seeker," he said. "You have no idea what you may have on your gauntlet now, correct? Demon-blood, or something."

The Seeker nearly reached for her dagger at Maxwell's move. But his words had merit. He did prove himself by easing her pain. Maybe she should trust him a little more.

"You... you're right. Again. I... apologize for being so hostile, Maxwell."

He shrugged. "Just trying to help, Seeker."

"Cassandra."

"What?"

Cassandra coughed once more. "Damn you. Just call me Cassandra."

The prisoner grinned, the first time she'd seen him do so. "Alright, Cassandra. Come on, we need to move, as you like to say?"

Cassandra smiled, pushing herself up. She could move without aggravation from her wound. "Yes, we need to. I suppose you have many questions, Maxwell. But until we can close that Breach, I'm afraid they'll have to wait."

He brought a fist to his chest, the standard human acknowledgement of a superior's orders. "Aye, Seeker Cassandra. I am content."

* * *

It was another five hundred steps perhaps, back down onto the frozen river, fighting past yet another pack of shades, when Cassandra pointed at a flight of stone steps curving around a hill to their right. "There! We're getting close to the rift. You can hear the fighting!"

Scores of voices shouting, yelling, the unmistakable sound of swordfighting reached Maxwell's ears as he bounded up the steps, pacing himself, mindful of the Seeker's injury. Instead, she pushed past him, fire in her eyes, unsheathing her longsword.

Maxwell sighed, drawing his bow and nocking an arrow, keeping pace with Cassandra.

The steps led to a clearing, formerly the courtyard of some fort built into the hillside. _Formerly_ , because most of the walls were rubble, exposing the courtyard and part of the inside of the fort to the full brunt of the cold weather. Maxwell felt his senses sharpen as Cassandra charged right into the fray, the writhing mass of bodies. He sighted soldiers wearing the same brown-green tunics fighting shades, a dwarf with something in his arms that fired arrows at the enemy without him needed to draw the string, and a mage elf, bareheaded, skillfully twirling his staff, directing bolts of magic, stunning the demons around him for the soldiers to finish off with their blades.

Maxwell took all of this in within two heartbeats, assessing the battlefield, seeking out the enemies. He drew his bowstring and loosed the arrow, striking a shade that was creeping up behind the elf, talons raised. He shot another that Cassandra had batted aside, the shade shaking its head as if to clear it of the concussion. He moved mechanically, drawing and loosing, drawing and loosing, moving as magic spilled his way, scorching the snow he was standing on. He rolled, straightened, loosed.

The last strike of the battle was by a soldier, the man yelling a triumphant "HAH!" as he stabbed a shade in the face, the shade twitching and collapsing, dissolving into green smoke. They looked about them; the battle was won. The demons were all gone.

Maxwell moved forward, slinging his bow away.

It was then he noticed the rift.

It was like that fireball back at the bridge, but this one hung in midair. Green shards, interspersed with black. Sounds of glass breaking. Disembodied voices emanated from the thing, not of this world. The rift's center, a ball of green, pulsed like the heart of a living creature.

That feeling of wrongness returned, full force. All Maxwell wanted to do was for it to go away.

A humming, getting louder and louder, came from it; the center began to pulse violently, eddies of green magic around it, spilling from it, a never-ending loop, pouring. Their surroundings were bathed in the green glow as the humming reached fever pitch, more magic spilling through, the rift becoming larger and larger, the soldiers backing away, their eyes wide in fear, Cassandra holding her shield before her, mouthing silently, sword at the ready, the dwarf simply looking at the thing as if it was a curiosity -

"Quickly! Before more comes through!" yelled the bareheaded elf, striding forward, grasping Maxwell's wrist. Before Maxwell could react, the elf lifted his hand into the air, palm-first, at the rift.

Maxwell felt the magic pulse through him, electric, his hairs standing on end, his breath catching, as the mark on his hand blazed green, surprisingly painless, a stream of magic erupting from it to contact the rift's center. A feeling of exhilaration ran through him, elation, that _he could do it_ -

The rift pulsed in time to his heartbeat, Maxwell noticed. And it seemed to be getting smaller; it was responding to his will! He pushed hard mentally, ignoring the fire in his veins, the thought foremost in his mind, that this rift was unnatural, he wanted it gone, gone, gone -

"GONE!" he yelled, snapping his fingers shut, forming a fist.

They all stumbled as the rift pulsed one last time and vanished in a burst of green energy. Along with the rift, Maxwell felt the exhilaration disappear abruptly as the elf let go of his hand. He snatched it back, feeling a little emptier, releasing a breath he didn't realize he was holding, staring at the elf, whoever he was. It was as if the elf knew what his mark was, and how to control it.

"You... what did you do?" he managed to say, rubbing his left palm with his right thumb. His whole left hand had gone numb.

The elf had taken two steps back from him, eyes dark, cunning. Maxwell blinked - no, the eyes were kindly, inquisitive, disbelief in them. The elf wet his cherry-red lips with his tongue and spoke, his voice surprisingly soft.

" _I_ did nothing." He gestured with a hand. "The credit is _yours_."

Maxwell lifted his hand, looking at the mark. It was a green slash across his palm now, like a sword wound, glowing brightly against the white snow under his feet. "You mean... this?" He showed it to the elf. "Well, I should be thankful that it's good for something, at least."

And he was. Ever since he'd woken up, it had given him nothing but grief.

The elf inclined his head. "Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark on your hand," he gestured again. "I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach's wake - and it seems I was correct."

A satisfied tone, smug even. But Maxwell had the feeling he was in the presence of an arcane expert. He knew that the experts in magic were often not those found in Circles, but in the apostates, who, without the fetters that was the Templar Order, could research magic to their heart's content. And sometimes they found new ways to use magic, outside of what the Circles teach.

This elven mage was most likely one of them.

Maxwell's thoughts were interrupted by Cassandra, who had come up next to him. "Meaning... it could also close the Breach itself."

"Possibly," replied the elf. He looked at Maxwell with an odd look in his eyes, his hands in front of him, fingers laced. He bowed slightly as he addressed Maxwell. "It seems... you hold the key to our salvation."

Maxwell waved off the bow, feeling awkward. "Please, _Hahren_ ," he said, using the elven honorific for an elder, someone with great experience. "I may have this mark, but I know naught about it except that it gives me great pain whenever the Breach expands. And..." he glanced at Cassandra. "And that it's killing me. I think."

The elf's eyebrows rose as Maxwell spoke, deferential.

The dwarf's voice, before anyone else could say something, "Good to know! Here I thought we'd be ass-deep in demons forever." He inspected his glove, wiping off a smidge of blackened snow, then brightening as he walked right towards Maxwell, smiling widely. Blond hair, tied back into a ponytail. Broad-shouldered, leather coat over a nice shirt, five buttons unfastened from the top, revealing a shock of blond chest hair. He'd slung his unusual weapon over his shoulder as he stepped forward, a hand outstretched.

"Varric Tethras, at your service. Rogue, storyteller..." he turned his head slightly, smile unfaltering, at Cassandra. "... and occasionally unwelcome tagalong."

Maxwell was sure his eyes were playing tricks on him, for the dwarf, Varric, _winked_ at the Seeker, as he shook the dwarf's hand. Strong grip.

He looked about him. The soldiers had sheathed their swords, forming a small circle around them. Some of them were glancing uneasily at the elf.

"So... are you all with the Chantry, or...?" he queried out loud.

The elf chuckled next to him. "Was that a serious question?"

Maxwell felt himself go red. An apostate then. He felt that barb. He was foolish to ask that.

Varric piped up. "Technically, I'm a prisoner. Just like you."

Cassandra spoke, her voice muffled, as if she was speaking through gritted teeth. "I brought you here to tell your story to the Divine. Clearly, that is no longer necessary."

The dwarf opened his arms, as if to proclaim his ownership of the fort. "And yet, here I am. Lucky for you, Seeker, considering current events."

"So... what now?" asked Maxwell. "I've closed the rift."

"Now, we go to meet Leliana," said Cassandra, her voice back to normal, authoritative.

"What a great idea!" interjected Varric, grinning broadly. He must have gotten under the Seeker's skin; she strode forward, prodding him in the chest. "Absolutely not! Your help is appreciated, Varric, but -"

"Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker?" The dwarf snorted, his grin now a smirk. "Your soldiers aren't in control anymore. You need me."

Cassandra balled her fists. For a moment Maxwell was certain she was going to sock the dwarf across the face, but instead she turned and stormed off, calling to her soldiers, uttering a sort of noise as she went.

"My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions," said the elven mage, smiling. "I am pleased you still live."

"He means, _I kept that mark from killing you while you slept,_ " added Varric.

"You... you did?" Maxwell was surprised at the statement. He was out cold? For how long? And this elven mage, Solas, kept him from dying? Just how powerful this thing on his hand was? What was it? All the burning questions he had came charging back to the forefront of his mind. But, as Cassandra had said, there would be answers. Now was probably the time to seek them.

" _Aneth ara, Hahren Solas,_ " Maxwell inclined his head. "If it is as Varric said... I'm grateful for your assistance. However I do have questions about this, and you seem to know a great deal about it all..." Maxwell showed Solas his palm.

Solas' eyes widened, a smile playing on his lips. "Ah, you speak the tongue! Forgive my surprise, I did not expect a human to speak so eloquently! Please, ask away. I am happy to answer anything you ask. If it is within my sphere of expertise, of course."

"Solas is an apostate, well-versed in such matters," commented Cassandra. She'd sent the soldiers back to the forward camp, coming back to their little circle.

Solas smiled at Cassandra. Maxwell sensed something dangerous about that smile, _a hidden blade in the curve of the lips_ , as Mother would say of people with smiles like that, once pointing them out to Maxwell at a party thrown in the Trevelyan household when he was a child. "Technically, all mages are apostates now, Cassandra. My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle mage."

Maxwell nodded, his suspicions confirmed.

"I came to offer whatever help I can give with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed, regardless of origin."

Maxwell frowned. "Are things really that bad, _Hahren_? I mean," he turned to Cassandra. "No offense to you, Cassandra, after all your explanation, but I don't think I'm seeing the bigger picture here. I'm still... trying to absorb all this."

"It is alright, _da'len_ ," said Solas, laying a hand on Maxwell's arm. "You'll come to realize in time the graveness of our situation. But for now, it's time for action, not words. Cassandra," Solas turned to the Seeker. "You should know: the magic involved here is unlike any I have seen. Your prisoner is no mage. Indeed, I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power."

Cassandra inclined her head at Solas' statement. "Understood. Come, we must get to the forward camp, quickly!"

Solas nodded at Maxwell, then turned to follow the Seeker.

Maxwell felt dazed. The world was at risk? He thought the Seeker was just pulling a fast one on him, to get him to cooperate with her. But now? He wasn't sure. He felt lost, like when he was a young boy running down the streets of Ostwick's Uptown, failing to recognize any of the many streets around him, calling out for Mother, and in that moment feeling so scared, like the earth was about to swallow him.

He was having that same feeling now. And Mother was so far away, across the sea...

He started as Varric nudged his arm. "Hey. Bianca's excited! Come on!"

Maxwell stared at the dwarf as he broke into a run after the Seeker and the elven apostate.

 _Who the hell is Bianca?_


	5. To Seal A Breach

"This way!" called out Cassandra. "Watch your footing!"

"We must hurry," added Solas.

Maxwell jogged to catch up with the group as they descended back down to the bank of the frozen river, careful not to slip on snow or turn his ankle on a loose rock, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm. Cassandra was leading the small party - now there were four of them. It was a weird experience, banding together with people he hardly knew, but the same could be said of when he first joined the Misfits. He didn't know anyone in the group, not even Ellana, and yet she ended up being one of his closest friends.

And of course, the other weird part of the experience was that they were all getting him to the Breach, that huge hole in the sky that seemed to loom over them, the surroundings darkening, as they made their way even closer to the thing. Just because he had this magical mark on his hand that could somehow... close it? Maxwell doubted his own ability at pulling off such a feat; he was no mage, he didn't know how to manipulate magic, like Eve did. He didn't know how he closed that rift, only that it responded to his will -

\- or did it? The exhilaration he felt certainly wasn't his own. He was cautious, afraid, scared absolutely _shitless_ , but excited? No. So where did it come from?

And Eve. Where was she amongst all this chaos? From what the dwarf, Varric, and Cassandra had said, the Breach caused unimaginable destruction and chaos in the valley. Maxwell screwed his eyes shut, trying hard to remember, the blood pounding in his head. He remembered _grabbing Eve's hand as a bright green flash dominated the sky..._ that was when the Breach happened, he supposed. _The mages and templars were both going down a road, the mages on the left, the templars on the right, each eyeing the other with suspicion, some with hostility, but no one made any overt moves..._

That was about everything he could recall. Maxwell slammed his fist into a nearby tree trunk in frustration, snow falling on his head, doing little to lighten his sour mood. He refused to entertain the thought that Eve may be dead - he survived, after all, so she should have made it as well. Varric half-turned his head, glancing in his direction, but said nothing, simply clapping a meaty hand on Maxwell's elbow. "Chin up, kid."

Maxwell inhaled deeply, his airway burning as the cold air rushed through it, causing him to cough involuntarily, doubling over. Varric nudged him; Maxwell blinked the tears out of his eyes to see the dwarf holding out a leather-bound flask. "This'll help."

Maxwell lifted the flask to his lips. He'd heard of people quaffing ale to keep warm in the colder regions, and damn if he could use some warmth right now, despite his reservations on drinks like these. The liquor - for it was liquor - slid down his throat, smooth, with an odd aftertaste, warming him up almost immediately. He licked his lips in appreciation; Varric grinned. "We call it 'Golden Nug.' White Seleny wine, a dash of West Hill brandy and a splash of pomegranate juice. Oh, and not forgetting the raspberries and maybe one tiny sprig of royal elfroot."

Maxwell took another mouthful before passing the flask back to the dwarf, nodding his thanks. Already, he could feel the warmth spreading from his stomach throughout his limbs, a welcome feeling, reinvigorating him as he continued to push through the snow, catching up to the Seeker and the apostate.

The riverbank came to an end; the river they had been following joined with another to form a larger river, a wide expanse of glasslike, smooth surface curving to their left. Another streak of green, a fireball, came crashing right in front of them, shattering the ice. Maxwell didn't need prompting; at the first sign of a talon, he'd loosed two arrows into the bubbling, unholy mess, Cassandra and Solas sliding down to do battle on the river itself, Varric coming up next to him, loading an arrow - no, not an arrow, noted Maxwell. The things Varric were loading into his strange weapon looked like arrows, but were shorter, stubbier. He aimed down the length of the weapon, and there was a snap - a demon shrieked and spun, tumbling away.

Maxwell was awed by the weapon's sheer power. But there was no time to gawp as more demons poured from the fireball-struck ice, the sounds of shattering glass deafening. Varric shot another demon, calling out to Cassandra who spun on a foot, cleaving a shade from shoulder to hip. "Glad you brought me now, Seeker?!"

The Seeker didn't even entertain the dwarf, knocking a demon flat onto the ice with her shield; Maxwell finished it off with an arrow to the face.

They continued on, past the wider frozen river, and up yet another flight of stone steps. Maxwell was starting to wonder if they would ever get there; these steps seemed to be endless, coming time and time again as they made their way even higher, the air thinner. He found it difficult to catch his breath now, and slowed, Cassandra plowing past him, Solas dancing nimbly up the slippery stones like he was a mountain goat.

"So... are you innocent?" asked Varric, his eyes twinkling. _Does he ever stop smiling?_

"I don't remember what happened, master dwarf, if that's what you're asking," replied Maxwell, huffing. The dwarf seemed to be untroubled, keeping pace with the young man with deliberate, measured steps.

"Oh, why so formal? Just call me Varric, like all my friends do," laughed the dwarf. "Good answer, though. That'll get you every time. Should have spun a story."

" _That's what you would have done!_ " Cassandra's voice wafted down from somewhere in front of them, the snow coming down thicker now. Varric raised his hands as though he was talking face-to-face with the Seeker, the laugh still in his voice. "It's more believable! _And less prone to premature execution,_ " he dropped his voice for the last part, glancing at Maxwell, grinning.

Friendly fellow, this Varric. And likeable too. He would have fitted right in with the Misfits. Maxwell grinned back at the dwarf as he grasped the branch of a tree to help himself over the last, steep part of the ascent.

Flaming wreckage greeted them, the charred remains of wagons and the horses pulling them lying by the side of the path, the fires hissing as snow fell onto them. All in all, there were about eight of the wagons, the smell of charring meat strong in Maxwell's nose as they passed. There were corpses of soldiers too, some with their mouths open in an eternal scream of terror or pain, no one could tell, their limbs stiffening in the cold, one holding his sword aloft.

"I hope Leliana made it through all this," muttered Cassandra, slowing to let Maxwell and Varric catch up. Varric guffawed, knowing something Maxwell didn't, saying, "She's resourceful, Seeker, don't worry your pretty head about it."

"Ugh. We will see for ourselves at the forward camp; we're almost th-"

"They keep coming! Help us!"

Cassandra's eyes widened, pushing past Maxwell for what felt like the hundredth time that day, drawing her sword. At the same time, Maxwell felt a stab through his left palm, the green light pouring from it once more. Solas nodded grimly as he noted the phenomena. "Another rift. We must seal it, quickly!"

He led the way up, Cassandra's battlecries already in the air.

Another stone archway framing a thick wooden gate, like the one back at Haven. In the clearing before it were about thirty or so demons, soldiers dispersed all about, fighting for their lives, even more soldiers atop the archway, loosing arrows that mostly missed for fear of hitting their comrades.

And also because of the rift that hovered before them, unholy noise pouring forth, along with even more demons.

" _Da'len_ , go! Close the rift, else we will drown in demons!" instructed Solas urgently, twirling his staff. Varric nodded, his weapon at the ready. "Go, kid. I'll cover you."

Maxwell bit his lip, already in the process of nocking an arrow. He breathed deeply and slung his bow away - Solas was the expert here - and ran, dodging fights, skirting around the edges of the battle, careful not to attract attention to himself. He drew one of the long knives he had, flipping it in his hand from a slicing grip to a stabbing grip, holding the blade out in front of him as he made his way to the rift, the tingling in his left hand intensifying as he drew closer to that -

He dropped and spun, the blade singing through the air, his hair ruffled as the shade's talons swiped at where he was a mere moment ago, the blade biting deep and lodging in the shade's leg - or whatever it had for legs, Maxwell couldn't tell. Without missing a beat, he drew his other knife and plunged it into the shade's chest.

Maxwell held his hand out, and tried to remember how he did it back there. _Just... feel. Will it closed. That's what happened._

He concentrated, and pushed out with his hand, like he was pushing at an invisible wall.

A stream of light burst forth from the rift, connecting to the mark on his palm. Maxwell couldn't feel his hand anymore through all the fey magic, but he kept his mind focused, remembering that desire to see this unnatural thing gone from the world, and -

He clenched his fist.

And found himself feet away, thrown from where he was standing, his ears ringing.

The mass of broken-glass and swirling, sickly green magic that was the rift was gone. Instead, a thin, cloth-like, translucent thing hung in its place. Maxwell pushed himself up, gritting his teeth at the sudden burst of pain in his back, where he'd landed on. The whispers were loud now, overpowering the sounds of battle. He could even make out several words in Common, cold running down his spine as he heard them.

He dragged himself over to the thing - rift? _Was it even a rift anymore?_ \- and held his hand out once more, the stream of magic reconnecting. This time, Maxwell could sense the pulses in his hand, beating in time to the pulsing of the rift. It seemed to contract, drawing into itself, as he pushed with all of his mental might, ignoring the battle around him, wondering if right at that moment, he would feel a talon in his chest, cold, as death came for him -

He pulled his arm back and clenched his fist.

With a shower of green magic, and a small shockwave that made him stumble several steps back, the rift disappeared. Remnants of magic swirled into the air, drifting off towards that blazing green inferno in the sky.

* * *

Maxwell nodded his thanks at the soldier who brought him a mug of ale, taking a big swallow before noting the youngster's terrified visage. Couldn't be more than eighteen, nineteen, maybe, just several years younger than he was. He drained the last of the ale and handed the mug back, clapping his hand on the youngster's shoulder. "Thanks, buddy."

The youngster stared in horror at his shoulder, then at him. Maxwell sighed and walked away to where Cassandra and the rest were conferring at a makeshift table. As he approached, he noticed the Chantry cleric who was addressing them was wearing a black cap, typically reserved for male clerics, a rarity in the holy order. His voice was thin, reedy, and was growing in volume as Cassandra tried to explain something to him, slamming his hands onto the planks, the barrels under them shifting violently.

"No, no, no! Have you seen how many lives have been lost here? I will not allow it!"

Maxwell touched Varric's arm; the dwarf grimaced and stood aside slightly to allow Maxwell to see what was going on. The cleric's eyes fell immediately on Maxwell, small beady eyes that reminded Maxwell of a rat's. The cleric's white-robed sleeve came up, his finger pointed squarely at Maxwell's chest, his face scrunching up in anger.

"Ah, here he is. Pentaghast, as Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution!"

Cassandra slammed her own fist down on the planks, shooting a look at the Chancellor that could wilt a tree on the spot, spitting her words past clenched teeth, almost exactly like how she spoke to Maxwell when he first woke up.

"After that little speech of yours, you dare 'order me?' You're nothing but a glorified clerk, Roderick! A bureaucrat!"

The Chancellor transferred his pointed finger from Maxwell to Cassandra. "And you, Pentaghast, are thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!"

Cassandra's hand wrapped itself slowly around the handle of her sword. _She's almost at breaking point_ , Maxwell mused, backing away slowly. Seemed like he wasn't the only one who noticed; the few soldiers who were gathered around did the same, their eyes flicking from the Seeker to the Chancellor, their own hands drifting towards their swords.

The woman with the ashen purple hood - _Leliana, is it?_ \- stepped forward, laying her hand down on the poor, battered planks, her authoritative voice defusing the situation immediately. "We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor, as you well know."

Cassandra's hand dropped from her sword, though from a side view Maxwell could tell she was grinding her teeth, a vein in her temple.

The Chancellor threw his hands up, practically screaming the words, "Justinia is DEAD!" He inhaled deeply. "We _must_ elect a replacement, and obey _her_ orders on the matter!"

Maxwell snorted at the absurdity of the situation. _Pah! Fucking Chantry. Useless in a tight spot, the lot of them._ It was bad enough with a Breach in the sky spitting demons everywhere, and here they were, doing nothing about it and flapping their gums instead on following _fucking_ orders! And the Seeker! Nagging at him to hurry up, that they needed to move, bogged down by this good-for-nothing cleric who just wanted him dead, without a trial!

Maxwell pushed past everyone roughly, ignoring the exclamations of indignation he elicited. "Well, since none of you seem to be taking the Breach seriously, I'll guess I'll go close it then while you yap like old biddies here."

"You brought this on us in the first place!"

The Chancellor's words stopped Maxwell in his tracks. He understood now how Cassandra felt, his own frustration almost boiling over. But he remembered how he dealt with similar situations like this in the past. _Just ignore the loudest voice in the room. They're overcompensating for being the weakest person in there._ He inhaled deeply, continuing his walk to the edge of the forward camp, tuning out the Chancellor's reedy, but ineffective voice. He was joined by Varric and Solas shortly as he paused to look up at the Breach, unnervingly close.

Maxwell didn't turn to look as Cassandra and Leliana joined them. "What are our options, Seeker?"

"Well..." Cassandra's voice was cautious, but calm, pointing at the end of the camp, where soldiers were congregating, drawing swords drawn, shields tight against forearms. "Commander Cullen's forces are clearing a way through the quickest route, a straight shot to the temple."

"But not the safest, Cassandra," interjected Leliana, pointing up. "Our forces can charge as a distraction while we go through the mountains."

Cassandra shook her head. "We lost contact with an entire squad on that path. It's too risky!"

"Either they're lost, or they're dead," muttered Varric.

Solas laid a hand on Maxwell's shoulder. "We can't risk you being harmed in the charge, _da'len_."

Maxwell felt it when all of them turned to face him. Cassandra. Leliana. Varric. Solas. Each of them had made an impression on him in the very short time that he was here. And now they wanted his opinion. Leliana put the question into words, her grey-blue eyes fixed on Maxwell's own.

"How do you think we should proceed, Master Trevelyan?"

* * *

"The tunnel should be just ahead! The path to the temple lies just beyond it!"

Cassandra's voice was almost lost to the howling wind as Maxwell wrapped his numb fingers around the rung above him, pulling himself up, feeling his trousers flap in the incessant wind. He sucked in a shaky breath and continued climbing the rickety ladder, Cassandra right behind him. If this was how bad it felt for him, it must be worse for the Seeker, for she was carrying her heavy shield on her back. The thought spurred him on, eager to make it to the top so that he could spare her further strain.

He almost regretted choosing to go through the mountain path. Almost.

Solas' voice, barely audible, "What manner of tunnel is this?"

"Part of an old mining complex. These mountains are full of such paths!"

"And your missing soldiers are in there somewhere?" asked Varric, somehow managing to sound incredulous even while shouting.

"Along with whatever's detained them!" yelled Solas.

"We shall see soon enough!"

Maxwell pulled himself over the edge, panting in the thin air. He grasped the Seeker's arm as she arrived, pulling her up, then doing the same for Varric and Solas. They made no further attempt at conversation, boots thudding on the near-frozen wooden platform, heading for the cave entrance, its darkness swallowing them.

They paused to catch their breath. Cassandra found and lit a torch, holding it aloft.

"This way."

* * *

The caves were far colder than anything Maxwell had ever felt in his life.

He stared, his hands in his armpits, at a statue of Andraste which was chiseled out of solid rock across the ink-black chasm. A cavern within the mountains; only a stone balustrade separated him from a drop of... how deep did this cavern go anyway? And how did someone manage to get all the way there just to hammer out a likeness of someone who was long-dead, just so future generations could admire the sight?

He found the whole thing ridiculous, going the distance for faith. There was no evidence the Maker even existed. How could all the Andrastians believe in a being they have never seen, heard or felt? Sure, they always countered this question with the old dogma of ' _Well, the Maker has turned from his followers until all corners of the world resonates with the Chant._ ' It was laughably easy for them to say that, disregarding logical questions like those.

But for Maxwell, he preferred proof. And since it was already the Dragon Age, nine hundred or so years since the Chantry was formed, and without a single shred of proof that the Maker ever existed, he'd stay out of fanatically believing in a being that may or may not exist, thank you very much...

He wiggled his toes and continued down the stone corridor, hurrying to catch up with the dwindling source of light. They'd found more torches, and lit them, but it put the entire party at risk, if they had to fight through these tunnels and caverns. But what other choice do they have? The tunnel was pitch-black. They could still hear the wind, now a whistle, blowing cold through the tunnel; it was like being in a giant creature, and they were in its airways.

Everywhere he looked, Chantry. Banners with the Sun hanging from the walls, handsome oak bookshelves filled with stiff books, cold stone hearths chiseled with the same care and skill as that stone Andraste back there... With each item that he laid eyes on, Maxwell felt his discontent with the Chantry grow even more. They could afford to bring in luxuries here, to one of the most inhospitable places in the whole of Thedas, and yet can't afford to feed the poor? To properly compensate those whose lives have taken a bad turn while in the service of the Maker? And they still could carry out Exalted Marches against those who opposed them, or just plain looked at them in the wrong way - just look at what happened to the elves!

A flicker of green from his palm - he'd grown quite used to the mark, like a second skin. Now, magic - there was something he could put stock in. He'd seen it, felt it, dreamt of the Fade while he was asleep. And the demons, too. _How did magic come to be?_ was a question he'd asked himself time and time again, and yet none of the tomes he'd perused had a solid answer to the question. To most people, even the scholars, it just... _was_. Like the trees, the mountains, magic had always been part of the world.

Maxwell shook himself out of his thoughts as the party cast their torches aside, having reached the end of the tunnel, faint daylight slanting through the gloom. There were a pair of corpses at the mouth of the cave, twisted horribly, their blood frozen in pools under their already-cold bodies, snow dotting their armor.

"Guess we found the scouting party," mumbled Varric, shaking his head.

"This... cannot be all of them," uttered Cassandra in disbelief, kicking snow away from a third corpse, kneeling to check it.

"So the others... could be holed up ahead," said Varric, making sure to tinge his voice with hope, catching the tone in the Seeker's voice. She was the one who sent the squad up here; Maxwell knew what it was like to send men to their deaths. He nodded, saying aloud, "I agree. I believe the rest of them are ahead."

Cassandra rose, looking faintly relieved at the thought. Solas interrupted the moment, pointing. "Our priority must be the Breach. Unless we seal it soon, no one is safe!"

Now they'd cleared the last of the mountains blocking their view from the valley below, Maxwell had a full, unadulterated look at the Breach. The mark on his hand tingled as a roar emanated from the swirling vortex above them. Where the Temple of Sacred Ashes once stood, now was a twisted mess of black rock, like a carnivore's teeth, pointed up and outwards, a result of the cataclysmic magical event, an 'explosion,' as Eve would put it, the spontaneous release of pent-up magic in a wide area around it. The trees here were bare, the leaves stripped off the blackened branches. The air was warmer here; the thought that enough magic could change all that cold to warmth was unnerving to Maxwell, who reached for his bow.

"Oh, I'm leaving that to our friend here," said Varric in amusement.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Varric," replied Maxwell sarcastically as they moved.

Barely twenty steps later, Maxwell knelt and fired off his arrow as they found the remnants of the scouting party battling a group of demons, a rift hanging over them like a small, green sun.

* * *

"Sealed, as before. You're becoming quite... proficient at this!" exclaimed Solas as Maxwell examined his hand, the mark sputtering, traces of magic still in the air.

"Well, let's hope it works on the big one," said Varric casually, adjusting something on that odd weapon of his, wincing as he applied weight to his left leg, where he'd received a slash from a spindly demon, a new one that Maxwell had never encountered before.

"My thanks, _hahren_ , but I did learn from the best," quipped Maxwell as he pressed a hand to the gash on his arm. It was but a scratch; it'll keep. Solas smiled widely before chuckling to himself, bending over a wounded scout, blue healing magic dancing around his fingers. Maxwell stumbled over to another scout who was lying far too still to be alive, pressing his fingers to the woman's neck. To his surprise, he felt a pulse; he checked her quickly, looking for her injuries. She had none. Maxwell surmised she must have been knocked out, propping her up gently against a rock before looking to the next injured soldier.

Cassandra, covered in demon gore, shook her gauntleted hand to dislodge the blood caught in between the plates, addressing a rather short scout that made Maxwell look twice before realizing it was a dwarf, barely coming up to Cassandra's midriff.

"Thank the Maker you finally arrived, Seeker Cassandra," she panted, hands on her knees as she tried to catch her breath. "I don't think we could have held out much longer."

"Good to see you, Lieutenant. But I'm afraid it's not me you should thank," Cassandra gestured with her chin at Maxwell, who was gently feeding a groaning soldier a potion, lifting the vial to his lips. "Our prisoner here insisted we come this way."

"The prisoner?"

Maxwell looked up, the soldier murmuring a guttural thank you, wiping his face with a gloved hand.

Hazel-green eyes over a freckled, rounded face. Flaming red hair tied back into a messy bun, several loose strands hanging over her forehead. As if reading Maxwell's thoughts, the dwarf brushed those strands of hair out of her face, her lips curling. "Thank you. Thank you for coming."

Maxwell made sure the scout he was tending to was able to stand before he walked over to the pair, nodding at the dwarf. He'd seen his fair share of fair maidens before, but never one whom he had to use ' _cute_ ' to describe. It occurred to him that this dwarf was young; he'd never seen much of the folk of the Stone before, much less young ones.

"You're most welcome, lieutenant. Cassandra," he turned to the Seeker. "We need to keep moving. Everyone here's walking wounded; I think they can make it back to the forward camp."

"Moving? To the- " the dwarf blanched as she noticed Maxwell's gaze, turning to look at the Breach. "The Breach? B-but- "

Cassandra laid a hand on the dwarf's back, directing her towards the cave. "The way into the valley behind us is clear for the moment, lieutenant. Go. Go! While you still can."

The dwarf swallowed visibly before saluting, her chin held high. "I- aye, Lady Seeker! Let's move, squad! Rosemary, support Hennessy! The way back down is clear!"

Solas twirled his staff once before setting it gently into the snow, clearing it of blood. "The path ahead appears to be clear of demons as well," he stated, a slight smile on his lips.

"Well, let's hurry then, before that changes," said Cassandra curtly.

* * *

The far-off rumbling he heard back at Haven was much louder here, this close to the Breach. Also, his mark had begun to tingle more often, stray jets of light escaping from it, but no pain. So far. For which Maxwell was grateful as he followed Cassandra along the rocky path.

"So, holes in the Fade don't just... happen, right?" asked Varric to no one in particular.

Solas spoke up, his area of expertise. "If enough magic is brought to bear, Master Tethras, then it is possible."

"But, there _are_ easier way to make things explode...?"

"That... is true."

Maxwell wondered at the elf's inflection, as though something had occurred to him just then. Cassandra cut into the conversation, glancing over her shoulder. "We can consider how this happened once the immediate danger has passed."

They rounded the corner, and immediately the mark began to burn. Maxwell gripped his wrist with his other hand, bearing with the pain, and looked up.

They have arrived at the temple. Or rather, what was left of it.

The path ahead ended abruptly in a sharp drop, a crater where the temple once stood. The same jagged black rock they'd seen earlier was far more prevalent here, huge toothy columns radiating outwards from a central area. Sickly green energies roiled above the crater, rising slowly to the Breach above.

They descended into the crater, dropping carefully onto blackened soil, Cassandra hissing as she did so. The potion he'd given her was beginning to wear off, Maxwell realized. But there was nothing he could do; he'd given the rest of his potions to the scouting team, so that they could make it back to the forward camp. He had a dozen arrows left, and he'd lost one of his long knives when a demon knocked it out of his hand, the blade spinning away into space, off the side of the mountain.

He didn't know what to expect. An army of demons? If so, they were well and truly _fucked_ ; he doubted the four of them could take on a host of the creatures of the Beyond in their current state.

A wall of the toothy, black rocks blocked their progress, each as tall as a cliff, impossible to climb over. And the rock pulsed with veins of sick green, infused with fey magic; that alone convinced Maxwell it was unwise to even go near the things, let alone scale them. Without a choice, they began circling around the perimeter of the crater, looking for a way into its heart.

Everything changed, walking into the crater. It was no longer cold, even as snow continued to fall onto their heads. Maxwell found it nice at first, after all that cold he had to endure getting here, but soon enough the warmth became uncomfortable. Everywhere he looked was black, a little grey, in sharp contrast to the near-constant white he had been looking at since emerging from the prison at Haven. Solas tapped him on the shoulder; he slid carefully down the rock, a wall of stone in front of him. Man-made, squared blocks, sharp edges.

The entrance to the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

There was an odd, twisted, black thing that Maxwell first assumed was a tree as Cassandra led them into the temple from the power of memory, so completely obliterated was the holy site. He slowed to examine it, several blackened branches atop a rounded, almost smooth trunk -

He realized, with a slowly dawning sense of horror, that the branches were fingers. The rounded trunk was a head. _And..._ he lowered himself onto his haunches, dread filling him as his eyes traveled down, finding a set of teeth.

Maxwell recoiled. It was no tree. It was a human body, burnt beyond recognition, the person it once was throwing his or her arms up to protect themselves from that single, bright green flash.

Maxwell felt the bile rise in his throat. He'd seen plenty of stomach-turning things, but this wasn't one of them. To be burnt completely to a crisp... he looked about him, the realization that there were scores of 'trees' like this all around him, each blackened, some _still on fire_.

"Come on, kid." Varric tugged at his sleeve. "It's horrible, I know. But we can keep this from happening to anyone again. Just have to close that damn thing."

Maxwell swallowed, but obeyed. Varric was right.

Cassandra led them down a stone hallway, the building's timber roof either collapsed or burnt away completely, small fires still burning here and there, illuminating them all in an orange glow, rubble loose underfoot. Maxwell turned to look as they passed another scorched corpse, this one's arms out to the side, face turned to the sky, mouth open in a scream or a final prayer to the Maker, the pose almost pleading. All of this death and destruction, all by magic.

"Woah. The Breach is a long way up."

They'd emerged into what Maxwell assumed was the main hall of the temple, a wide open area, a sunken pit in the center, almost like an amphitheater. The largest rift he'd ever seen was hanging above that open area, that same sound of shattering glass and unnatural voices louder than the rifts he'd already closed so far. Varric had his neck craned, looking up; Maxwell did the same, his mouth falling open.

They were right beneath the Breach. From this angle, it was as a storm, a ring of swirling green magic, roiling and spinning, the green light almost too bright to look at, painting everything a uniform shade of green. A steady stream of magic curled from the rift in front of them into the Breach above; Maxwell could feel the magic, his mark burning, almost constant, his hand twitching.

"You're here! Thank the Maker!"

Leliana's relieved voice carried over the rumbling and whistling of the Breach; she came to a stop before them, several soldiers behind her. Cassandra wasted no time for pleasantries. "Leliana, have your men take up positions around the temple!"

Leliana nodded, returning to her soldiers and issuing orders quietly, the soldiers leaning in to listen. Cassandra stepped in front of Maxwell, her eyes glinting. "Maxwell. This is your chance to end this. Are you ready?"

Maxwell looked up. It was _impossible_ to get up there - even the tallest spiked rock was barely a quarter of the distance to that raging vortex! He hoped the Seeker was joking, saying, "Well, Cassandra, I not sure how to even start getting up to that... thing. I don't have wings, you know."

The same thought seemed to strike Cassandra as well; she turned to look up, and scowled.

Solas stepped forward, a calming hand held out, palm up. "No." His eyes fixed on the rift, he spoke slowly, as though it was an academic discussion they were having, him the tutor and they the students. "This rift was the first, and it is the key."

His gaze on Maxwell, lips pressed together. "Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach."

There was something in the elf's eyes that gave Maxwell pause. Something nagged at him; something about the elf was... off. The way he stood, perhaps? The quiet, confident way in which he stated how he, Maxwell, was going to seal that giant tear in the sky? Or perhaps it was the fact that Cassandra, Varric and himself were covered in demon gore, yet Solas' robes were immaculate?

Cassandra didn't notice the same things Maxwell did, already turning, looking. "Then let's get down there. And be careful."

* * *

 _NOW IS THE HOUR OF OUR VICTORY._

The deep, booming voice stopped everyone in their tracks, the suddenness of it taking them all by surprise. The voice seemed to come from all around them; Varric cursed quietly and readied his weapon, Cassandra following suit, her shield up, swordpoint leading.

They continued moving down, heading for that rift. Several stone columns - the temple's - had shattered, but magic levitated the fragments, each bobbing serenely in place, ignorant of the swirl of magic nearby that threatened to destroy the world.

 _BRING FORTH THE SACRIFICE._

"Wh-what are we hearing, Solas?" stammered Cassandra, looking all around them for the source of the voice.

"At a guess... the person who created the Breach," answered the elf grimly, his eyes narrowed as he too, cast his eyes about.

They passed several red rocks which seemed to shine on their own, red light bathing them all, interspersed with the green from above. Varric inhaled sharply. "You know this stuff is... _red lyrium_ , Seeker?"

"I see it, Varric. Hard not to."

"But what's it doing here?"

"Red lyrium, Varric?" asked Maxwell quietly, his eyes darting from rock to rock. He'd never heard of lyrium having a color before.

Varric shook his head. "Just... don't touch it. It's bad news for everyone, and everything. All you need to know."

"Magic could have drawn on the lyrium beneath the temple. Corrupted it," mused Solas.

"Brr. It's evil, that's what it is," shivered Varric, hurrying forward past the cluster of red rocks.

 _KEEP THE SACRIFICE STILL._

A new voice punctuated the noise around them. A woman's voice.

" _Someone, help me!_ "

Cassandra blinked, lowering her shield. "That's - that's Divine Justinia's voice!"

Solid ground. They stepped forward slowly, Leliana's soldiers taking up positions around the rift, swords at the ready. Above them, Maxwell could make out the shapes of archers all along the walls, their bows drawn.

" _Someone, help me!_ "

The voices seemed to be emanating from the rift, echoing all around them, bouncing off the stone.

And then, a voice that Maxwell had never expected to hear issued forth, calm, a little curious, maybe.

His own.

" _What's going on here?_ "

The mark on his palm crackled. Stunned silence.

"That was... your voice. Most Holy called out to you! But..." Cassandra whirled on Maxwell, frowning, but the rift behind her shifted suddenly, expanding without warning. They all felt it, Maxwell raising an arm -

A dark figure, tall, imposing, the form shadow, his eyes mere red pinpricks, towered over them. In front of it, impossibly small in comparison, was a white-robed Chantry Sister.

Everyone straightened, hearts pounding, eyes glued to the vision before them. Maxwell found himself stepping forward without thinking, his marked hand out to the side.

Divine Justinia the Fifth.

Her arms were out wide, ensnared by flaming magic. The towering figure was gazing at her intently, but its gaze was torn from the Divine, looking off to its left. Maxwell felt as though he was in a mirror; there, opposite him, stood a perfect shade of him, down to the pair of hunting knives at his belt. The shade-Maxwell stopped in its tracks, looking up at the shadowy figure and the Divine.

" _What's going on here?_ "

The Divine seemed to panic at the sight of shade-Maxwell, struggling uselessly against her bonds. " _Run while you can! Warn them!_ " she yelled, her face crinkled in a grimace.

WE HAVE AN INTRUDER. SLAY THE HUMAN.

The shadowy figure paused. SLAY THE ELF AS WELL.

Shade-Maxwell stepped back from the scene. Behind him was a shade-person the real Maxwell was very familiar with, her slim fingers wrapped around his arm, tugging. " _Run, Maxwell!_ "

 _Ellana?!_

The rift contracted; the shadowy figure, the Divine, shade-Maxwell and shade-Ellana all disappearing in a flash. Maxwell was at a loss for words, dazed by the revelation he just had, unaware that almost everyone was looking at him.

 _Ellana was there too? Where is she now?_

He felt a rough hand on his shoulder, spinning him around, the Seeker's furious visage inches from his own, a finger poking painfully into his ribs. "You _were_ there! _Who attacked_? And the Divine, is she -"

Solas pulled Cassandra away from Maxwell. "Easy there, Seeker. Let him regain his senses first."

"I... I..." The words wouldn't come. _Ellana was there._ He'd told her to stay put at their camp while he went to look for Eve. And she tailed him, kept an eye on his back all the while?

Was she even alive right now?

" _Was this vision true? What are we seeing?!_ " seethed the Seeker, all traces of sympathy for Maxwell completely gone, hurling the questions his way, Varric now coming in to help Solas in keeping the enraged Seeker off the obviously-dazed prisoner.

Maxwell shook his head to clear it. "I- I don't remember! I'm trying, but I can't- "

"Echoes of what happened here," explained Solas; the Seeker shook herself free of the apostate, glaring at him. "The Fade bleeds into this place." His voice carried a finality about it, as if warning the Seeker to stand down. The frown remained fixed on her face, but she relented, instead turning around in a huff and stomping towards the rift.

Solas palmed his staff, gazing thoughtfully at the rift. This one had no glowing ball of magic for a center - in fact, it was entirely made of shards of broken green glass. Maxwell had noticed it from the first moment he laid eyes on it, stumbling over to Solas and Varric, who was straightening his tunic, tutting at the wrinkles the Seeker had left.

"This rift is not sealed, but it is closed, albeit temporarily," said the elf. "I believe that with the mark, the rift can be opened, and then sealed properly and safely. However," his voice became harsh. "Opening the rift would likely attract attention from the other side."

Cassandra's eyes widened at the implication. "That means... demons! STAND READY!" she bellowed, making sure her voice carried to all the soldiers. She drew her own sword, glancing over at Maxwell. He could still feel her animosity, but she gave him a tight nod, and that was all he needed.

Maxwell Trevelyan stepped forward, holding his hand out. Took a deep breath.

And, internally, reached for the magic within the mark.

* * *

It was tricky. Very tricky.

As Solas had said, the rift was closed. Maxwell had to reverse his thoughts, willing it to open instead. How large, he had no idea; Solas didn't mention that part. But he tried to keep it as small as possible, to limit the number of demons that was sure to pour forth once he opened it.

If he could.

The magic stream pulsed as Maxwell closed his eyes, greeted by the now-familiar feeling of the mark's magic within him. This time though, he instructed it to open the rift, putting his thoughts into it, his muscles tight. He could _feel_ the rift, the world suddenly going quiet, as he opened his eyes to behold the sight of it expanding - slowly.

And, like a spring-loaded mousetrap, Maxwell somehow pushed past some sort of threshold, the rift snapping open.

Almost immediately, demons emerged from the rift. The archers above loosed their arrows, a hail of death raining down from above, striking multiple demons in the first volley. The surviving demons pushed past the dissipating remnants of their fallen brothers, snarling, to meet the shield wall and swordpoints of the footsoldiers. Sword on talon, the fight commenced, even as more demons poured from the rift.

He drew his remaining knife, but Cassandra pointed at the rift, blocking the demons from him with her shield. "Go! Close it!"

Maxwell hesitated, then nodded, turning back to the now-open rift. He drew on the mark's power once more, connecting himself to the rift, willing it to be gone.

The sudden pulse of magic through the rift caught him off-guard; he stumbled, severing the connection, even as a loud roar that did not belong to anything of this world, not even the dragons, issued forth through the rift.

The bloodied soldiers stood their ground, surviving ones closing ranks, forming a phalanx, ready to take on whatever was coming through next.

And it stepped through the rift.

Its footfalls made the ground tremble; Leliana lowered her bow, whispering a "Sweet Maker..." Solas' lips twisted, twirling his staff, the phalanx of soldiers backing away slowly as the huge demon made its presence felt, towering over all of them, four times the height of a human. A word to describe it was 'spiky,' for nearly every part of its body ended in a spike, all along its forearms, down its back, its head. Too many eyes to count. A thick, muscled body with equally thick, muscled arms and legs.

But what was scariest about the demon was its talons, each the length of a man, and sharper than a blade's edge. Even Cassandra faltered for a moment at the sight before calling out, her sword in the air, "NOW!"

The archers released a volley of arrows. The demon roared and swung with an arm, scattering most of them.

"Maxwell, SEAL THAT DAMNED RIFT!" screamed Cassandra as she charged, bolstering the footsoldiers who looked like they were about to turn tail and run from something as fear-inducing as this.

Maxwell hastened to obey the Seeker, though his heart went icy at the sight of the demon. _How do you stop something like that?_ he wondered as he reestablished the connection, pressing hard, feeling the rift shrink.

"Faster, _da'len_! If you close it quick enough, the demon will be severely drained of magic, and it can be killed easily!" called out Solas as he shot off magical bolts from his staff at the hulking demon. It cornered the phalanx of soldiers, raising an arm. Maxwell heard the impact as the demon scattered the soldiers like twigs in a wind, and gritted his teeth. _Hurry up, dammit, people are dying!_

Maxwell widened his stance, shoving his hand towards the rift. This one was hard to seal; it resisted his every attempt to banish it, an invisible force pushing against him. Maxwell blinked the sweat out of his eyes, concentrating, his marked hand shaking uncontrollably. The invisible force pushed against him, the stream of magic from his hand diminishing; Maxwell felt the burn mutate into a sharp pain as he uttered a sound in his throat involuntarily, angered at this stubborn damned _fucking_ thing. How dare it oppose him? It was supposed to answer to him, not the other way around! He let his anger flow through him, lending him strength as he renewed his assault on the rift, this time pushing past the resistance easily until it came to another invisible wall, each time getting harder and harder.

But Maxwell was nothing if not determined. How else had he managed to stay sane in the Trevelyan household, under _the Bann_? How did he end up here at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, instead of enjoying yet another night of spoils in Seleny with the rest of the Misfits, thousands of miles away? How has he survived this long in a Chantry-dominated land, where he was the lone heretic, the only non-Andrastian he'd ever known? All of these feelings coalesced into a ball of righteous fury as Maxwell took a step forward, the effort titanic, the invisible force all but throwing its full weight against him now, the rift sputtering, shedding green magical sparks, as did the mark on his hand.

Maxwell could feel the blood rushing to his head as he fought the mental battle, refusing to give in to this freak of nature, this fey magic. For it wasn't natural to this world, upsetting the balance, and it insulted him, a purveyor of the status quo.

Fuck whoever that shadowy figure was for flinging open this door to the Beyond!

Fuck whoever it was for killing so many people this side of the Veil!

Fuck whoever it was, if it turned out Evelyn and Ellana were dead!

Fuck whoever it was, for _completely and unequivocally disrupting his life_! For giving him this damned mark that he _never asked for_! For putting him in this fucking position _right now_!

Maxwell's throat was raw, but he managed to growl, the growl slowly morphing into a roar of defiance that echoed around the stone as he finally pushed past the invisible force, grabbed onto the heart of the rift, and _crushed_ it in his fist, _ripping_ it out of the rift itself, drawing his arm back sharply.

Then, he knew naught but the dark.


	6. Changing Times

_"The Breach! It's... gone?"_

 _"He did it. I saw him, he did something to with his hand. Magic."_

 _"They're saying that a woman was in the Fade behind him when he walked out of the Temple, untouched by the demon-fire. Could it have been… impossible… Andraste herself?"_

 _"What's happened to him? Is he dead?"_

 _"Where would you go? There's nothing but wilderness beyond the walls!"_

 _"Oy, Trevelyan, bring me my greaves, they're in the kitchen."_

 _"Maxwell, dear. Remember, your words are just as important as your deeds."_

 _"Young Trevelyan. You tread a path that few dare to take. Are you willing to walk it all the way to the end, even if it means losing everyone you cared about?"_

 _"Misfits, raise your tankards! To the continued good health of young Maxwell here, and may his arrows continue to fly true!"_

 _"Some apostate, they say. Destroyed Kirkwall's Chantry with powerful magic."_

 _"I have to go. My sister's going to be there, in the middle of all those damn templars. It might be a trap."_

It's about time you woke up, don't you think?

* * *

Max opened his eyes.

Almost immediately, as though waiting for him to awaken, violent streaks of pain shot through his body. A swaying orange flame greeted him, the candle half-burned, sitting in a tiny metal pan on the bedside table.

He grimaced as he moved, finding himself under a heavy eiderdown quilt. It was comfortably warm, and his body wanted nothing more than to settle down once more into slumber, but he was in an unfamiliar place. Hence, he pushed the quilt off him - noting its quality, something only nobles would possess - and pushed himself up, swinging his legs off the very soft, very comfortable bed.

The room was small, though not uncomfortably so, the walls bathed in a warm orange glow from the fireplace to his left, the flames crackling in the quiet. Sparsely furnished, just a rough wooden table and its accompanying chair pushed against the far wall, a simple bookcase by the door, directly ahead, and the bed he was sitting on.

He supposed he managed to close the Breach. The last thing he remembered before passing out was anger as he fought against that rift, the one that _Hahren_ Solas had said was the key. He remembered Varric slamming into a shade with his shoulder, and Cassandra's bloodied but awestruck face as she beheld him closing the rift, her face lighted up by that now-familiar green glow. He remembered soldiers scattering as that huge demon swiped left and right.

He found a pair of boots at the foot of his bed and put them on, not surprised to find that they fitted perfectly - they were his good old hunting boots, after all, a parting gift from Clan Lavellan, somehow clean and polished after all that trudging through snow and mud. He ignored the pain that ran through his muscles, standing and stretching, eliciting a stab of pain from between his shoulder blades that caused him to hiss quietly.

He walked about the room, testing his legs. Besides a dull ache in his thighs, he could manage walking without difficulty. The room was rustic. Spartan. In addition to what he'd seen, several pelts hung from the wall - a snow wolf, a bear. The bookcase's shelves were lined with only a few books, the thick tomes accompanied by tall bottles of wine. Several barrels guarded the wall to the right of the door, a whole wheel of cheese lying atop one of them.

A delicious aroma reached his nostrils; he turned, only now noticing the pot that hung over the fire. He bent close and inhaled - soup. At least three herbs he knew. His stomach grumbled at the savory scent - with a jolt, he realized the last he'd eaten was with Ellana, in their camp, sharing a loaf of bread and a lump of cheese, washed down with some water. Finding a bowl and a spoon on the table - as if left there for him - he spooned some soup carefully into the bowl, and tasted it.

The soup was excellent. Delightfully tangy, yet robust. It warmed his insides even as a cold wind blew in from the nearby narrow window, a low hubbub reaching Max's ears. All he could see, though, was the broadside of the wooden hut next door and a well-trodden path, half-melted snow. He surmised that he must still be somewhere in the Frostbacks. Haven, maybe? Or any one of the other small towns that dotted the mountainside?

And, most importantly, the question only now occurring to him - causing him to set the empty bowl down on the table a little harder than he intended - was he still a prisoner? Granted, he didn't wake up in a chilly stone cell with his hands cuffed. Actually, this was probably the most comfortable he'd felt since leaving home...But prisons can take many shapes, Max knew.

No guards watching over him, a suspect in the Divine's 'murder?'

So what now? The trial, as Seeker Cassandra had said?

For a fleeting moment, Max entertained the thought of simply slipping away, disappearing off the face of Thedas, living off the land far from civilization, free of its trappings and dreadful standards that everyone had to live up to. Life with Clan Lavellan had shown him how wonderful the forests were, if you were cautious of the beings that dwelt within. Maybe he could go ruin-hunting, finding out more about the past than what was taught in the Chantry-sanctioned history books. Maybe he might stumble across an apostate, and learn more about magic, about the mark on his hand.

Maybe there was a guard posted right outside that door.

Max stooped over slightly, padding over to the door. He was at a severe disadvantage, not knowing where he was. If he could open the door and find a way out, and avoid any guards in the process, maybe he could just...

Inches from the handle, his fingers outstretched, the handle began to turn on its own. Max snatched his arm back, arranging his face into a pleasant expression. He hoped he wouldn't be greeted by a contingent of grim-faced, fully-armored soldiers, to be dragged off to wherever they wanted - he looked down. He was wearing a fine tunic and breeches, the fabric soft under his fingers, and expensive - Uptown-expensive - judging from the needlework and quality of the cloth. Not exactly what he'd be wanting to wear, no protection at all, coming face-to-face with soldiers - and who garbed him in such finery?

Not that he was complaining, though - it had been quite some time since he had worn something this comfortable...

A pair of hazel eyes, a pointy ear. Not the shiny breastplates he was anticipating, no sharp glinting sword edges.

"Oh!"

The door swung the rest of the way open of its own volition. It opened directly onto the snowy street outside, but the elven girl in front of Max had his attention, her mouth an O as she stared at him, her body going rigid, the small box she was carrying in her arms slipping and falling to the floor with a thunk, its contents scattering all over the stone floor. Young, even younger than he was, barely into adulthood, slender in her youthful elven beauty. She was clothed in fine clothing not unlike his own, brown vivid against the white snow.

Max opened his mouth to ask who she was, but the elf had darted past him into the room, the cold air following her inside. Facing him, in the center of the room, she fell to her knees and genuflected, pressing her forehead into the rug.

"I didn't know you were awake," came her high-pitched, quavering voice. "I swear, my lord, I duly apologize. I am but a humble servant."

This poor elf was terrified of him; not the first time Max had seen something like this. Back in Ostwick, another of his name... _the fucking Bann_ , who reveled in people worshiping the ground he walked on. Frowning at the memory, Max stepped forward and knelt, scooping the elven girl's items back into her box. A wooden comb, a clay washbowl, three leather hairbands, a bottle of scented water - its flowery smell strong even through the stopper, which had stayed on, miraculously - a time-glass, two fresh potatoes, and - he blushed - three sets of women's undergarments. These he very carefully lifted with a single finger, placing them carefully into the box.

The elven girl looked up, horror on her face, as he set the box in front of her, her eyes widening. "M-my lord?! You needn't do that!"

Max noted that all the items she had were for self-care, and were quite personal in nature. Meaning, that they belonged to this elven girl. And that for her to take her personal items to his little room here meant that she was instructed to care for him long-term. And, from the way she was behaving, she was most likely a city elf. So very different from Ellana, this elven girl. Ellana would never bow before anyone but her elven gods.

He spoke, his voice low, soft, touching the elven girl on the elbow. "Shh. Calm yourself, please. Stand."

The elf rose uncertainly, her gaze averted, hands clasped in front of her. "What is your name?"

The elf mumbled something, clasping and unclasping her hands, nervous.

"Do not be afraid. I am Maxwell. I presume you were instructed to care for me while I slept?"

The elven girl nodded once, sharply, eyes still on the floor.

"I thank you kindly, but I would like to know my caretaker's name."

The elf pressed her lips together before looking up, looking right at Max. "Lyara, my lord. My name is Lyara."

Max smiled, to put her at ease. "Lyara... that's a beautiful name. _Aneth ara_ , Lyara."

Lyara blanched, as though Max had struck her across the face. "I-I beg your forgiveness, my lord Maxwell. I do not speak the elven tongue."

Max frowned at that. She caught the facial expression, falling to her knees and once more pressing her forehead into the rug. Max stared, and made a sound of exasperation that made Lyara look up in alarm.

"Oh, for the _LOVE OF_ \- Lyara. _Please._ " Max inhaled deeply, willing the boiling anger within himself to reduce to a simmer. "I'm no god, nor am I your lord. I'm just Maxwell. Can't we..." he wrung his hands, feeling the frustration in his veins. "Can't we just... behave like normal people?"

Lyara's wide eyes were uncertain as she rose, pulled to her feet by the Herald, who didn't treat her like a servant, though that was exactly what she was. Why was he treating her almost like... an equal? "M-my lord?"

"Stop. Calling. Me. That."

Lyara caught herself in time. "Y-yessir, my - M-Maxwell?" It was so strange, to speak the first name of the famed Herald to his face. Lyara had never done this before, not even to the noble children she cared for previously.

Max grinned. "Better. Now, Lyara, I know I'm the one being cared for here, but would you like some soup?"

Lyara froze as Max strode over to the table, grabbing his bowl and filling it with soup from the pot. "B-but m-my..."

"Here." Maxwell's hand was warm on her arm, guiding her over to the table, pulling the chair out for her. "You look like death, running about in the cold. Have some, it's really good."

He didn't seem to notice that she was supposed to serve him, not the other way around! But as she hesitantly sat, Lyara's stomach betrayed her, growling. She felt her tongue running across her lips without conscious thought, the smell of soup powerful, appealing, to her senses. Three days, she'd been running about, obeying orders from the people from higher up. No one seemed to be in charge, and that muddled things. Three days, where she only had cold meat, a slice of bread and a mouthful of mead to fill her belly as she rushed about.

Max sat on the bed, resting his aching muscles as he watched the elf. She tentatively spooned a mouthful or two of soup, before setting the spoon down, abandoning it altogether, tilting the bowl to her mouth, gulping down the warm liquid. The poor girl wasn't just hungry - she was absolutely _famished_. What kind of conditions had she been through in the past few days?

He waited patiently as she helped herself to a second bowl, this time taking her time to savor the taste. At length, she dabbed at her mouth with her sleeve, pushing the bowl away, staring at her knees.

"Th-thank you, my - Maxwell. I'm afraid I haven't had much to eat for the past three days."

"Don't mention it, Lyara." Max shifted himself, finding a more comfortable position to sit in. "I have questions, if you don't mind?"

Lyara turned to face him, finally daring to look him in the eye, the hint of a smile playing around her cherry-red lips. "I must admit... I did not expect you to treat me, a servant, so kindly, my lord. I will try to answer your questions as best as I can."

Max tutted. Lyara's hand shot up to her mouth. "Maxwell. Sorry. I mean, it just comes so naturally -"

"It's alright, Lyara. Now, where am I? And what happened?"

Lyara sat a little straighter in her chair. "You're in Haven, M-Maxwell. They say that... they say that you saved us." Lyara gestured at the wall, beyond which he supposed was the Breach. "That thing, that... Breach, stopped growing, as did the mark on your hand."

Max looked down at his palm; to his surprise, the mark was barely visible, only a faint green slit, almost like faded dye. If he clenched his fist, he could pretend he didn't even have the mark. There was no pain.

"It's all anyone here in town has talked about for the last three days."

"I was out cold for three whole days?"

Lyara's chin was a blur as she nodded vigorously. "Yes. Lady Pentaghast was concerned that you might never wake at all, but Master Solas was confident you would come around eventually. He and Lady Pentaghast tasked me to watch over you as they had pressing matters to attend to. Oh, sweet Maker!"

Lyara stood abruptly. "How could I forget?" she cried, rushing for the door. "Lady Pentaghast! She told me to tell her when you've awakened, ' _at once!_ ' she said!"

"Lyara, wai - ah, nuts."

The elf had already vanished out the door. Max sighed, and followed her at a more sedate pace, tugging his sleeves down to his wrists, wincing at the protestations of his body. Now that he knew he was the talk of the town, he simply _could not wait_ to see how they would treat him, remembering just three days ago they wanted nothing more than to murder him.

And this time, Cassandra wasn't there to protect him.

* * *

 _"Nice shot, M!"_

 _"Good on ye, lad!"_

 _"Hey, handsome!"_

 _Max blushed slightly as Shayd grabbed him in a headlock and planted a kiss on his cheek, the others roaring their approval. His back was thumped, his hand shaken, ale spilled on his tunic, surrounded by a bunch of people whom he was content to call his friends. Even Sutherland himself came by, glaring at him for a moment before wrestling him, ruffling his hair and thrusting a bag of coin into his hand, grinning. "_ Winnings from bets, _" he said._

 _He felt right at home. He belonged here, with them, the Misfits._

 _He carefully folded the golden arrow away into his pack. It felt good, knowing he was indisputably the best shot in all of the Free Marches, and that was all thanks to Hahren Aravel and Clan Lavellan, and years of practice. Around him, the Misfits were packing up, breaking camp, the sun low in the sky. The Grand Tourney was over; there was no reason for them to stay within the Grounds._

 _It was time to march once more._

 _Max sensed her presence before she spoke, a scent of lavender, a shadow flitting at the edge of his peripheral vision. He smiled softly. "_ Anetha ara, lethallin. _"_

 _Graceful, lithe, Ellana Lavellan darted around him, snatching up items from their shared campsite, depositing them neatly in a pile for them to sort through and pack, discarding unnecessary items. They worked in silence, hands moving, finishing their packing in just a few short moments. Max plopped himself against a fallen tree, gulping water from his waterskin._

 _Ellana sat next to him, her presence reassuring. She playfully snatched the waterskin, taking a large swig of water herself. She bumped shoulders with him clumsily - her attempts at learning human gestures were coming along nicely, but still needed some polishing. He hummed, deep in his throat. "Told you I could make that shot, Lana. And you doubted me."_

 _Ellana threw the waterskin at him. "Show-off! You doubted yourself just as much as I did!" Her laughter was as wind in a wind chime; clear, easy on the ears, musical. Max found himself grinning stupidly; such was the effect the Dalish elf had on him, a pleasant surprise just when he thought he'd come to understand her, each and every time._

 _She scooted closer, laying a head against his shoulder. "_ Ir abelas _, Max," she said softly, her fingers playing with the blades of grass they were sitting on. "_ Fen'Harel _must have been misleading me."_

 _He chuckled. "Nah. To be fair, you were right. It was just a lucky shot._ Fen'Harel _misled us both, I suppose."_

 _"But still, it was a contest between the greatest archers in the Free Marches, no? And you won. If you had been lucky, Max, you were very, very lucky._ Andruil _herself must have been watching over you."_

 _"Hm."_

 _They sat together in the quiet for a moment, enjoying each other's company, Ellana's mind wandering. Beyond their camp, the festivities were winding down, Cumberland's citizens out in droves, helping to clear the Tournament Grounds. The Grand Tourney wasn't something that Ellana had seen before, and what a spectacle it was! So many people from all over Thedas; Avvar hillsmen, their naked bodies painted in white and blue, testing their mettle against brightly-dressed Orlesian chevaliers; Anderfel riders, burly and rough, buying hardy Nevarran cavalry horses; Tevinter mages, garbed in black and silver, poring excitedly over craftwork and haggling, with much frowning and finger-pointing, with dark-skinned Antivan craftsmen…_

 _The Dalish didn't have anything like this. Even the arlathvhen she'd attended a few years back wasn't this... boisterous. Colorful. So full of festive cheer and... happiness. She did not see a single frown, a single sad face; even the losers of the various competitions simply shrugged and went off to enjoy the rest of the day. Ellana was glad that the Misfits took a detour to enjoy themselves for a while after that dangerous job in the Silent Plains, feeling fortunate she was able to witness something like this, with the Misfits vouching for her, Shayd keeping an eye on her as she walked amongst the spectators, staring in wonder. The stories she could share with the others in the clan, once she gets back..._

 _"Oy, you two! Get your arses up, we're moving! Stash your packs with Voth, and move up ahead, you're leading!"_

 _They jumped at the announcement, Sutherland smiling broadly, hands on his hips. He clapped a hand on Max's shoulder. "When we set up camp, M, drink's on me. You did good. Please don't tell me cranberry juice again, though, something like this, we've got to celebrate properly!"_

 _Max grinned at Ellana, the Dalish elf smiling her soft smile in return. Back to the grind, but it was something they both excelled at, scouting. Her emerald eyes twinkled in anticipation, her bow already in her hand._

 _"Let's go."_

* * *

Seeker of Truth Cassandra Pentaghast, seventy-eighth in line for the Nevarran throne, Hero of Orlais, and Right Hand of the Divine, slowly raised a hand to her head, wondering if she'd displeased the Maker in some way for her to be stuck here, in His house, arguing with a Grand Chancellor whose only role so far in this entire debacle was to whine and coerce her and Leliana to figure out how to elect a new Divine. As if he couldn't tell from their activities that they were trying to restore order first; while she agreed with him that, yes, electing a new Divine was most certainly crucial for the Chantry and all who follow the Chant of Light, what use was a Divine if they'd messily and hastily elected one in the midst of all this chaos? Who might be smote down by yet another one of those damned demons that seemed to flow like water from multiple rifts from… everywhere, really.

The reports from the scouts were grim; all over Thedas, things were in disarray, and that was putting it mildly. The political situation in Orlais was bad enough, what with the War of the Lions going on. And the mage-templar war was back in full swing, after their leaders perished in at the Temple, multiple reports of peaceable folk being harassed by templars and apostate mages alike, even killed, have been coming in as of late; the bastards were beginning to behave like bandits! Cassandra wanted to punch something. Or more preferably, slash someone from shoulder to hip. And _how wonderful_ it was that she had a target right next to her, rambling on and on about how many have been killed so far!

Shame she couldn't tear _this_ target apart, though. _Ugh._

"I told you to retreat, Seeker!" came the target's reedy voice, ready for another tirade. Leliana was on the other side of Grand Chancellor Roderick, eyes burning holes in the multitude of parchment scraps on the table. Leliana was the more level-headed of the two of them, keeping Cassandra in check, but Cassandra's patience with the Chancellor was wearing thin. If only that Maxwell fellow could hurry up and wake up already so they could proceed with their plans for reestablishing the Inquisition and start to seal rifts and make headway in uniting the whole of Thedas...

She still couldn't believe it; the day Her Most Holy had summoned her and Leliana to Her private quarters, and briefed them on what she intended to do, the audacity of the plan still left her reeling even now, two years later. The Inquisition; the answer to the chaos that now ran rampant across all of Thedas. _To unite an entire continent..._ It was as if Most Holy had expected something like this to happen, and prepared accordingly... _Divine, indeed_.

"... forty three dead, Pentaghast! Your little foray into the mountains cost forty-three good men their lives! What say you to that, after I told you to withdraw?"

The oak under Cassandra's fingers groaned as she tightened her grip around the edge of the table, barely restraining herself from whipping out her sword. Through gritted teeth, wishing the Chancellor would just _shut up_ , she said, "You didn't _tell_ me anything, Roderick. You have no authority over me. And, by the Maker, if we hadn't done what we've done, that number would have been even higher. The Breach is now stable, and those brave soldiers have helped in that endeavor, a first step in restoring the peace."

Roderick crossed his arms, his lips thin and bloodless, beady eyes narrowed. "So you believe their lives were expendable? To be spent carelessly at your whim? If only the Maker could see you now, Seeker."

Cassandra practically pounced on the Chancellor at that. "I do not believe that, you rodent!" Only Leliana's iron grip on her arm stopped her in her tracks, seething at the Chancellor, who wore an oily, supercilious smile on his rat-like face.

"Well, then. That is not for you to decide, Pentaghast. Maybe you should focus more on your duty. To remind you, since you've clearly forgotten, your duty is to serve the Chantry!"

Cassandra slammed a fist onto the table. "My duty is to serve the principles on which the Chantry are founded, _Chancellor_." She spat the last few words at him, condemning him with every syllable for obstructing their every move and making life miserable for them, "As is yours, should _you_ need reminding as well _._ "

The door creaked. Further words died in Cassandra's throat as the prisoner, Maxwell, stuck his head around the door, pushing it open further when he saw her, stepping into the room.

Max paused when he noticed the two guards on either side of the door, clad entirely in black armor, which glistened like oil in the torchlight. Seeing no motion from them, he closed the door behind him gently before stepping forward, pausing when he saw that white-robed guy, what's-his-name-again? The guy he saw at the forward camp, the one with the annoying voice. Some Chancellor or something.

The walk through Haven had been disconcerting, at the very least.

 _He pushed the door open. The hubbub he'd heard through the windows stopped almost immediately as he held a hand up, shielding his eyes from the early winter morning sun. There was a crowd of people in front of him, his hut. And all of them were staring at him._

 _At best guess, around eighty or so people._

 _The path ahead was marked out by a contingent of soldiers, each fully armored, their fists up to their chests, all saluting him, forming a wall separating him from what was surely the townsfolk of Haven. The quiet was palpable as he carefully descended the stone steps, pausing before the nearest soldier, burly, body thick with armor plating._

 _"Err. What is all this?"_

 _The soldier dipped his head once. "If the Herald would be so kind as to follow the path marked, he would find himself at the Chantry of Haven, where Seeker Pentaghast awaits his presence," the soldier intoned._

 _Max nodded hesitantly, wondering what that was about._ Herald? _"Very well. Thank you."_

 _He followed the path; what else was he supposed to do? Throughout, the quiet followed him, though he heard whispering, womenfolk hiding their lips behind cupped hands, the men studying him intently. No one was cursing him. No one threw vegetables._

That's him! That's the Herald of Andraste!

They say when he came out of the Fade, Andraste herself was watching over him!

 _Cold ran down Max's spine as he continued down the path, the soldiers' backs ramrod-straight, as still as statues. Some of the townsfolk did what Lyara did, falling to their knees at the sight of him, and genuflecting. He was becoming more and more uncomfortable with the situation, and picked up the pace from a walk to a jog, his breath misting before him, his feet churning the snow and dirt, forming a grey-brown slush._

 _He hadn't been to a Chantry in years. But the Haven Chantry followed the same layout faithfully, so he was able to navigate his way through the main hall without any trouble. Here, the unnatural hush, the keep-your-mouth-shut-someone's-coming quiet was replaced with a true sort of quiet, a_ peaceful _quiet, the air warm from the many, many candles that had been lit, was being lighted by a Chantry sister, her gnarled hand gripping a long, thin stick, the tip of which she touched to the wicks with practiced ease, wisps of smoke curling into the air._

 _The sort of quiet he preferred. Book-reading quiet. Hear-your-own-heartbeat quiet. He trod as silently as he could across the stone floor, the Sister inclining her head as he passed. For some weird reason, he found himself returning the gesture. Perhaps it was in the spirit of the moment, this calming quiet that he found soothing -_

 _\- which was punctuated by muffled yelling, from the large wooden door at the very back of the Chantry, leading to the backroom._

 _Max shrugged and headed for it._

The white-robed man's finger came up, pointed squarely at Max's chest.

"Chain him! I want him prepared for travel to the capital for trial!" he bellowed. Or, tried to. His reedy voice made the order sound more like a suggestion.

Seeker Cassandra's eyes hardened. Leliana was off to the side, staring right at him, her face a mask. She didn't respond when he smiled tentatively at her, so he averted his gaze, watching the unfolding scenario in front of him instead.

"Disregard that. Leave us," commanded Cassandra. Her voice, low, laced with authority, was more effective; the two guards saluted and left the room, closing the door behind them. The robed man - Grand Chancellor Roderick, Max now remembered - looked pointedly at Cassandra. "You walk a dangerous line, Seeker."

Cassandra dismissed the statement with a wave of her hand. "The Breach is stable, but it is still a threat. I will not ignore it."

Max cleared his throat. "So uh... Seeker Cassandra, am I... still a suspect? A prisoner?"

The Chancellor's finger came up again. Max had a feeling it was his favorite gesture, pointing. "Yes. You absolutely are."

Before Max could retort, a colorful oath already on his lips, Cassandra beat him to the punch. "No, he is not."

Max blinked. _What?_ He wasn't 'guilty' anymore?

"He's done plenty, suspect or not! His actions will be taken into account by the new Divine!" screeched the Chancellor. Max rolled his eyes at that - a fanatic. Of course. _Everything falls to the Divine! The Maker! Yadda yadda going to order an Exalted March on your arse yadda yadda._ He'd seen this sort of people before, and his general perception of them were... unflattering.

"Have a care, Chancellor," said Cassandra, pushing herself away from the table. "The Breach is not the only threat we face."

Leliana stepped forward and said curtly, " _Someone_ was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others," she glanced at Roderick. "Or have allies who yet live."

The Chancellor's mouth opened and closed as he digested the implication. His voice quavered, full of indignation and disbelief. " _I_ am a suspect?!"

Leliana laid a hand on the table. "You, and many others," she said, her voice now low, with an edge to it. A coiled viper, ready to strike. Roderick gestured violently at Max, both hands coming up as if they could help emphasize his point. "But _not_ the prisoner?!"

"I heard the voices in the Temple. The Divine called to him for help," said Cassandra.

"So his survival, that thing on his hand - all a coincidence?!"

Cassandra inhaled deeply. "Providence. The Maker sent him to us in our darkest hour."

This was certainly taking a different path than he envisioned. Max let his shoulders hang loose, the tension seeping out of him; there wasn't going to be a trial, then. But he had a feeling he knew why Cassandra summoned him here instead of letting him go on his way. Lyara did say that the Breach had _stopped growing_ ; she did not say that it had _closed_.

So, it was still there.

 _And..._ Max glanced at his palm, at that mark, which was now beginning to feel like an old battle scar. _I'm still the only person who can close rifts. And the Breach._

But all this talk of providence, of the Maker, Cassandra implying that he was sent by Him, did not sit well with Max. He never believed in the Chantry. Not in the Maker. To be lumped like this into the faithful, without his approval or input, was enough for him to push aside any other thoughts he had. "Cassandra. Not wanting to sound... pretentious, but you can't honestly believe that I'm any sort of 'chosen one,' do you?"

The Seeker turned her dark eyes on him. "We are all subject to the will of the Maker, Maxwell, whether we wish it or not. No matter what you are, or what you believe..."

"... you are exactly what we needed. When we needed it," finished Leliana, inclining her head.

Max groaned internally. _Great. Now I'm an agent of the Maker._

"The fact is, Master Trevelyan, the Breach remains. It has stopped growing, but it is our intent to close it for good. And your mark is still our only hope of closing it," said Leliana, confirming what Max had suspected. He nodded at that; he'd expected that statement.

But not Grand Chancellor Roderick. The man, silent as Cassandra and Leliana addressed Max, now spoke up. "This is not for you to decide, Sister!"

The Seeker reached for something behind her, on a smaller table pushed up against the wall, and slammed it onto the table, startling Roderick enough that he jumped back at the suddenness of it. Max stepped forward, peering at the thick leather cover, a metal carving of the Chantry's sun pressed into it. The tome looked like a holy book, but from the way Cassandra had just treated it...

"You know what _this_ is, Chancellor."

Evidently, the Chancellor did; he went pale at the sight of the tome, then slowly, his lips twisted, his brow furrowed. Whatever it was, Max mused, it was enough to shut the self-serving bastard up. What was Cassandra up to?

"A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act. As of this moment..."

Seeker Cassandra straightened, her voice becoming crisper, looking right at Maxwell; he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. This was a momentous occasion. A writ from the Divine herself? A hint of a smile played around Leliana's lips, her face betraying no emotion, as Cassandra took a breath, and made her announcement.

"I declare the Inquisition reborn!"

Cassandra got right into the Grand Chancellor's face, poking a finger into his chest, Roderick backing away in alarm as Cassandra advanced, punctuating her words with jabs from her finger, an unstoppable force.

"We _will_ close the Breach, Chancellor. We _will_ find those responsible. And we _will_ restore order. _With_ , or _without_ your approval! So yes, it is for _us_ to decide!"

The Chancellor glared at her, his earlier pomposity gone, his jaw working as he tried to think of something to say. At length, he simply turned, pushing roughly past Max, and left the room, robes flapping, slamming the door behind him. With the Grand Chancellor gone, the palpable tension in the room disappeared; Cassandra exhaled, long and slow, running a hand through her short hair. Leliana relaxed visibly, taking a seat, rubbing her chin.

Max didn't know what to make of all this. He'd heard of the Inquisition before, but only a little; people who got together after the First Blight, rooting out blood mages and slaying demons. But what has that got to do with the Breach?

Leliana must have sensed his confusion; she spoke up, indicating the heavy tome with a hand. "This, Master Trevelyan, is the Divine's directive: rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos."

"The Inquisition of old?"

"Pre-Chantry. They came together to restore order in a world gone mad from the First Blight. After that, they laid down their banner and formed the Templar Order," answered Cassandra. She, too, took a seat, looking far more tired than Max ever remembered seeing her.

"So... you are intending to resurrect this.. group? This order? But aren't you still part of the Chantry?"

Cassandra snorted, rubbing her eyes. "Heh. Is that what you see?"

Leliana spoke. "The Chantry will take time to find a new Divine, and then it will wait for her direction. But we cannot wait. So many Grand Clerics died at the Conclave..." Her voice trailed off, sadness in her eyes. Max felt a pang of sympathy for this red-haired Sister. Leliana must have lost quite a few friends in the Chantry for that sort of pain to be obvious in her voice.

"No," Cassandra shook her head. "We are on our own. Perhaps forever."

"So where does that leave us, Cassandra? We aren't ready. We've no leader, no numbers, and now, no Chantry support!" exclaimed Leliana, pointing at the pile of parchment on the table.

Cassandra rose, sighing. "I know, Leliana. But we have no choice. We must act now." She looked up at Max. "With you at our side."

Max didn't know what to say. It seemed like whether he liked it or not, he was part of the events happening here. He felt like an invisible hand was slowly closing around him, dragging him towards... something. An abyss? Yes, it felt like an abyss. And to think it all began with him simply wanting to make sure Eve was safe. And now here he was, with a magical mark on his hand that no one could truly explain, Eve possibly dead, Lana missing, also possibly dead, and - he paused.

The Misfits must think _him_ dead. After all, he did tell Sutherland what exactly he was planning to do before asking his permission to take leave from the Misfits. News of the Breach must have reached them by now. And Mother... he'd written a letter to her, telling her the same things that he'd told Sutherland. What was she thinking right now, hearing about the Breach, her only two children possibly dead?

Max pressed a hand to his mouth, biting a knuckle, collapsing into a wooden chair, eyes unfocused. Leliana glanced at Cassandra before padding over to him, kneeling next to the visibly-distressed young man.

"You can go, if you wish, Master Trevelyan," whisped Leliana. "We will not force you to stay. However, I have many contacts throughout Thedas. If you have anyone you wish to get in touch with... I can get an answer within two to three days, far shorter than any traveling you have to do."

"And you should know, Maxwell," interjected Cassandra. "While some believe you chosen, many still think you guilty. The Inquisition can only protect you if you are with us. If you choose to leave, some may hunt you for the rest of your life."

"The world has changed, thanks to the Breach. The life you once had, with your family, with the Misfits, has also changed. If you return to either of them, I cannot guarantee that you'll be able to return to a normal life," said Leliana softly.

Max stared at the Sister. He had been wondering how Leliana knew his family's name, ever since she invoked it at the forward camp. She knew about him, knew about the Misfits. _How?_

She laid a hand atop his; he was trembling slightly. "It will not be easy if you stay, Maxwell. But you cannot pretend that this has not changed _you_ ," she concluded.

Max's eyes fell onto where Leliana's hand rested atop his. In spite of the turmoil going on in his head, he found the gesture of compassion reassuring, familiar. Like how Mother used to back when he was a child, feeling so lost, the world too big for him to tackle. He took a deep breath to calm his emotions. Cassandra was right. Leliana was right. He can't go back now. Things have changed. And perhaps it was time he took responsibility for his actions. He'd ran away from home, never once thinking how Mother and Eve would fare in his absence. With him being the only person who could close the rifts, and with everything's that going on in the world right now, they were asking - pleading - for his help.

"Thedas is in trouble?"

Cassandra nodded. "Not just Thedas. If that Breach keeps expanding, it _will_ swallow the world, destroying anything and everything we all have come to know and love."

Max nodded, his mind made up. He stood, Leliana's hand slipping off his as he moved to the table, looking down at the pile of parchment - scouting reports.

Demons attacking towns, even cities, in droves.

Orlais, torn in half by the civil war between Empress Celene and Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons.

Fade rifts, appearing in Crestwood, all along the Storm Coast, even at the Western Approach... all over Thedas.

This was chaos. He couldn't just stand idly by and let this whole thing blow over - it won't. If there's one thing his time with the Misfits had taught him, it was if he had the ability to maintain order, to help those in need, he would extend a helping hand, no matter the cost. For how else can anyone stand against the forces of evil? The fight for peace, for good, it all had to begin somewhere.

The Inquisition was the answer to all the chaos in Thedas right now. And it needed his help. It needed to begin. And it needed _him_ to begin.

Cassandra could tell that they'd won him over by the set of his jaw and the fire of determination in his eyes, his fists tightening. She extended a hand, palm up. "Help us, Maxwell Trevelyan. Help us fix this, before it's too late."

Max looked into the Seeker's eyes. There was a hint of desperation in there, but also determination that mirrored his own. This woman was ready to lay her life down for the Inquisition, ready to go against the Chantry, her own religion, to see it through, if her interaction with the Grand Chancellor was any indication. She was about to lose everything in this endeavor, just like him. A kindred spirit.

Max strode around the table and grasped the Seeker's hand. "Seeker Pentaghast, I accept."


	7. The Inquisition Reborn

_The word went out._

 _Ravens took to the skies in large numbers, a queer sight for the townsfolk of Haven, for the raven was not a common bird in these parts. Each headed for a specific destination in Thedas, mostly squads of soldiers bearing the sigil of the Inquisition, the flaming Seeker's eye with a sword through it. And the weary soldiers, having waited for weeks, months, their supplies augmented by whatever they could hunt in the wilds, sat a little straighter, their eyes brightening, motions becoming more purposeful._

 _It was time. And they were ready._

 _In Haven itself, the townsfolk gathered around the Chantry as the templar, wearing a distinctive fur shawl, his golden hair glowing in the early morning light, stepped up to the entrance to the Chantry, and with two heavy blows of the hammer in his hand, nailed an announcement to the Chantry's door, the scroll unfurling, revealing the Inquisition's sigil at the very top, the proclamation under it, penned in thick, black, yet exquisite penmanship._

 _The templar glanced disdainfully at the Grand Chancellor as he strode back to his tent, twirling the hammer in his hand, a small smile on his lips as he passed the bureaucrat. Roderick wanted to say something to the townsfolk, keep them from falling under the spell, but as the clamor began, the excited whispers and finally someone with a loud enough voice telling the others what was on the scroll, he scowled and slunk away, shoving another cleric out of the way._

* * *

 _Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast strode down the line of tents, the clash of sword against sword loud in the snow-covered clearing just outside of Haven, the soldiers fully armored, practicing their swordsmanship against each other. Gripping the pommel of her sword, a smile began to grace her sharp features, becoming ever wider as soldiers came up to her, saluting, fists to their chests._

 _She halted at the foot of the steps leading up to the Chantry. Leliana was there, sending yet another raven into the sky. Commander Cullen, who simply nodded at her. And Maxwell, his young face turned to the Breach, the swirl of clouds that hung over the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the mark on his hand glowing, his brow furrowing as his jaw tightened._

 _Cassandra felt a load lift off from her shoulders like Leliana's raven. Everything was taking shape. In the days to come, news of the Inquisition would have reached every living being in Thedas. Many will see the necessity of ending the chaos, and join up. The Breach was still there, no doubt, but as Cassandra smiled at her little company, turning to look at the Breach herself, things didn't seem so bad. Now, at least, they've begun to organize. Begun to fight back. It was up to them all to fulfill the Divine's final wish - to restore order to Thedas._

 _The Inquisition will stand ready to answer the call._


	8. Baby Steps

_**One must keep in mind the state of Thedas prior to the Chantry's creation: a world where the only source of order - the Tevinter Imperium - had fallen apart. People blamed magic for the death of Andraste, the Blight, the terror they saw every day - and not without reason. Abominations and demons rampaged the countryside. No one was safe. Disparate groups of men and women initially**_

Max reached for the steaming hot mug of tea beside him, taking several sips. The warmth was welcome against the cold of the mountains; he wiggled his toes, and continued to read, oblivious to the world around him.

 _ **Evidence suggests they were as vigilant in their protection of mages as they were of regular people. When they intervened, they convened an**_ **ad hoc** _ **trial to determine the guilty party. This even application of justice led to their poor reputation; the Seekers came down against every group at one time or another, their "Inquisition" gaining notoriety for being on no one's side but their own.**_

 _ **They considered themselves good people, however - followers of the Maker's true commandments. This was never more evident than when they laid down their banner in support of the fledgling Chantry. They believed with all their heart that the Templar Order was the answer a desperate Thedas needed in a terrible time.**_

 _ **Ultimately, the Inquisition was composed of independent idealists, not Chantry zealots; that is the truth.**_

He marked the page and shut the book. Ferdinand Genitivi was one author Max followed closely despite his strong Andrastian beliefs; Genitivi's _In Pursuit of Knowledge_ series was a treasure trove of information, introduced to him by _Hahren_ Aravel, who could find no fault with the Chantry man's meticulous notes on everything under the sun. Someone at the Haven Chantry had a copy of the series' entry on the first Inquisition, and Max had requested to borrow it for a few hours, while he waited for Sister Leliana's friend to arrive from Orlais; Max heard that she was a diplomat of some sort.

It had been two days since Cassandra declared the Inquisition reborn. In just two short days, the number of soldiers camped outside Haven have doubled, reinforcements from the foot of the Frostbacks, all of them simply waiting for the signal to regroup. And in these two short days, Max watched quietly from a corner, inconspicuous in his worn leather armor, giving most who saw him an impression of yet another mercenary who'd signed up. Oh yes, besides Ferelden regulars and Orlesian troops who were tired of the civil war, mercenaries of every stripe had been showing up. Max remembered seeing several qunari, their towering figures imposing, even the female ones, toting giant swords or warhammers across their already-broad shoulders.

But Commander Cullen was the one who handled the Inquisition's forces, so Max didn't pay much heed to them. Cassandra had shrugged when he asked what he could do to help; it made his position in the Inquisition somewhat shaky, since he had no idea where he fitted into the order, besides being ' _the one who has the mark on his hand, the only person who could close the Breach._ '

A mouthful.

Cassandra had introduced him to the commander just the previous day. Here he came, striding out of his tent, his adjutants already waiting with reports in their hands, his golden hair positively shining in the weak morning light, his face obscured by the thick fur shawl that made him stand out amongst everybody else.

Max had thought, on first glance, that the commander was hefting some dead creature around his neck.

 _"May I present Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition's forces."_

 _The handsome former Templar bowed slightly. He was clad in Templar plate armor - the same armor that Max would have worn had he kept his mouth shut and continued his training - his sword hanging from his hip. The commander's voice was deep and rich, but tinged with a weariness that Max had heard before, in soldiers who've seen and fought enough to tire of killing, a man who'd signed too many letters of condolences. "Such as they are. We lost many soldiers in the valley, and I fear many more before this is through."_

Max watched the proceedings in Haven, only his eyes moving, hidden in the shadow of the Chantry, Lyara sidling over occasionally to replenish his tea, the one thing she was insistent on doing for him after his treatment of her, smiling shyly and catching herself whenever she was about to address him as a lord.

Sister Leliana had been busy; she'd been receiving endless reports daily, if not hourly, from ravens, an odd sight this far up the mountains. She'd break the wax seal on the reports, reading their contents with a frown, before answering with a small roll of parchment of her own, scribbling a reply, sometimes asking Cassandra something in a low tone, before tying her replies to the ravens' left legs and sending them off into the cold sky.

Max was intrigued by the Sister. From what he'd seen so far, she was the straightforward sort, not one to mince words or beat around the bush, in contrast to Cassandra, who waxed poetic sometimes, though not intentionally. What worried him, though, was that Leliana knew exactly who he was, despite his best efforts to hide the fact he was a Trevelyan of Ostwick in the eight years since he'd left home; even Lana didn't know, much less the other Misfits, so how did this enigmatic Chantry Sister _know_? And the way Leliana had spoken to that chancellor, her icy glare sending chills down Max's spine, was enough for Max to make one conclusion: Sister Leliana was a person _not_ to be fucked with. Ever. He could still feel that unspoken promise of pain and death that assailed Roderick.

And Cassandra's blunt, one-word description of Leliana explained it all, justifying the unease he felt, the thing that he couldn't quite place his finger on.

 _"What is it you do here, Sister Leliana? In the Inquisition, I mean."_

 _She looked him in the eye, the intensity of her gaze unnerving even through the loose bangs of flaming red hair that fell from under her ashen hood, giving her a youngish, rebellious look. Her delicate red lips parted as she blinked, trying to find the words to explain her role._

 _"Well... my position here involves a degree of -"_

 _"She's our spymaster."_

 _Leliana's lips twisted as she turned her head slightly to glance at Cassandra beside her, who was oblivious to the Sister's gaze as she perused reports, her voice becoming frosty._

 _"Yes. Tactfully put, Cassandra."_

A spymaster. A bard. If there was one thing that Max found intriguing about Val Royeaux, it was the tales, the legends of the bards. Assassins in the crowd, smiling and laughing with you up till the knife in your heart. Or in your back. All part of the grandeur and decadence that was The Game. But other than that, his view of the 'center of culture of Thedas' was rather dim.

He was glad that Leliana was on their side, but he couldn't help but throw a glance or two behind his back every once in a while, though he hadn't done anything to earn the Sister's wrath. As far as he could tell, anyway.

Cassandra herself was out there with the men, supervising their training alongside Cullen, keeping a close eye on the few mages that had survived and had sought refuge with the Inquisition. Max would have joined them - he hadn't picked up a sword for quite a while now - had it not been for the one phrase on everyone's lips that he was already sick of hearing, even after just two days.

* * *

 _"Something troubles you, Maxwell?"_

 _Max looked down the length of his long knife, drawing the whetstone carefully across its edge. "Indeed, Cassandra. The 'Herald of Andraste.'"_

 _"What - oh. I... see."_

 _He could sense disapproval radiating off her, sitting next to him. "Peace, Seeker. While I am certain you are aware of my... dissatisfaction with the Chantry, I do not intend to blaspheme. That being said, what's this about a 'Herald?'"_

 _Cassandra sighed. "You need to remember, Maxwell, while you do not share my beliefs, people saw what you did at the Temple, how you stopped the Breach from growing. They have also heard about the woman seen in the rift when we first found you; they believe that was Andraste."_

 _"Well, we know that that was Divine Justinia, right? Why not tell everyone that?"_

 _Cassandra shifted uncomfortably. "Only the few of us there knew it was Justinia. And to be frank, the thought of you walking out of that rift, caused by that explosion that killed so many, with Andraste watching over you... people tend to lean towards the more... idealized version of the story. Something that aligns with their faith."_

 _Max snorted at that. "That's absurd."_

 _"To them, it isn't. If I hadn't been there myself, I would have believed it was Andraste, too," said Cassandra, a little stiffly._

 _"And you and Sister Leliana are doing nothing to stop these rumors?"_

 _Cassandra sighed again, long and hard. "No. And not out of disrespect to you, Maxwell. The people need hope, now more than ever. The mage-templar conflict, as it is, has sown incredible chaos all over southern Thedas. Orlais is embroiled in a civil war of its own. Ferelden is still recovering from the Blight. And now the Conclave is utterly destroyed, the Divine dead." Cassandra choked on the last word, raising a hand to her face. "People need hope, Maxwell. They need something to believe in, that peace will eventually return. We've seen too much conflict these past few years."_

 _Max grunted, seeing the Seeker's point, relenting. "Aye. That we can agree upon, Cassandra. But I hope you do understand it will take me a while to get used to being a symbol of hope. I've never been a hero before, unlike you. I'm just... me. A rebellious noble kid, who just wanted to see the world."_

 _Cassandra looked long and hard at him, her eyes seemingly piercing into his soul. She nodded, her lips pressed together._

* * *

"Ana!"

Leliana looked up at the familiar voice, her lips already curling into a big smile. She rushed forward, reports forgotten, at her old friend, already grinning herself, arms open for a hug. "Josie! When did you arrive? I didn't hear anything from my lookouts!"

"Wanted to surprise you. I actually pushed off a day early, and your troops have already cleared the way through the Frostbacks, so it was a rather uneventful and pleasant trip."

"So, shall we begin?" Leliana asked, a challenge, her eye twinkling, squeezing the shoulder of her oldest and dearest friend, in this world where true friends were so hard to come by.

"Let's." Josephine Montilyet smiled in return, shuffling the papers on the ledger in her arm, her pen already poised to make notes. "For starters, how about you tell me about the Herald? I've been hearing stories."

* * *

Apparently, him being the Herald of Andraste was _the_ big news throughout Thedas right now. And besides the soldiers who've been summoned, pilgrims have been flooding into Haven to pay their last respects to the Divine - and to catch a glimpse of the Herald himself. Max managed to stay hidden in plain sight so far, but he knew that wouldn't last, once people start to poke about like an over-inquisitive next-door neighbor. Already the soldiers could recognize him, saluting him whenever he headed to the Chantry from his tent out in the field...

"Your Worship?"

Max blinked, and groaned. It wasn't Lyara's voice. Female. Eager. _Too quickly_ , he lamented. He'd just been thinking about it, and now people are already coming up to him? He took a deep breath and looked left, and up.

And lowered his head, his eyebrow rising. "Err."

The dwarf smiled brightly. "Don't worry, Your Worship. I get that a lot."

She looked familiar, this dwarf. Red hair tied back into a messy bun. Freckled, rounded face. Inquisitive hazel-green eyes. It struck Max - the scouting party, up on the mountain path. _The cute maiden_ , in his own words. He felt heat creeping up his neck, and coughed to hide his discomfort. "The scouting party, yeah? You're their leader."

"And you're the Herald." The dwarf stuck her hand out. Though his hand enveloped hers, her grip was surprisingly strong. "Inquisition Scout Harding, at your service. It's an honor to meet you once more, my lord." She bowed slightly, eyes on him, a faint smile on her lips.

"Maxwell. I prefer to be called my name instead of a title. Doesn't sit right."

She regarded him with bright eyes. "You got it. So... I've heard the stories; everyone has. The Breach..." Her eyes darted for a moment to Max's hand, a quick flick, but he caught it nonetheless.

Max shrugged wearily. At least Harding wasn't worshiping the ground he was on, unlike quite a few others who practically fell to their knees at the sight of him. "Yeah. Don't know much about magic, though, so if you're going to ask me how I did it, you're out of luck, Scout Harding."

"Don't worry, Your Worship. I wasn't going to."

"It's Maxwell, please, Harding."

"Maxwell, right. I see. Well, in any case, Maxwell, Sister Leliana sent me to get you. Ambassador Montilyet has arrived from Val Royeaux." Harding gestured with a hand at the Chantry. "They're in the back room."

"Thanks. You're heading out?"

Harding tilted her head to a side. "Afraid so. Sister Leliana has me scouring the Temple, see what we could find."

"Stay safe, Scout Harding." Max held a hand out. "Thanks for the heads-up."

"No problem, Maxwell." Harding grinned and shook his hand once more.

* * *

She was garbed in a dress of gold silk and velvet, the most well-dressed of them all. Her skin was chocolate brown, several shades darker than his own, or the other three in the room, all of them looking up as he pushed the door open. But that did not subtract from her beauty, though; on the contrary, she seemed... _lovelier_. Her raven-black hair was tied back into a tight bun, her ensemble completed with an ornate collar that adorned her neck, a single blood-red ruby, glittering in the torchlight, at its center. She was holding a ledger in her left arm, on which a candle balanced precariously on its top edge, flame sputtering as Max brought a draft in with him into the room.

She smiled as he looked at her, her eyes brightening. Max lowered his gaze in embarrassment. The ambassador was very pretty.

"Maxwell? This is Lady Josephine Montilyet. She's our ambassador and chief diplomat."

Max raised his eyes, and bowed, as was taught by Mother. "My Lady."

To complete an already-lovely appearance, the ambassador spoke, liltingly. Max immediately recognized her accent as Antivan; he'd spent some time chatting with an Antivan barmaid once. Still as hypnotizing now, as it was then, musical, very much unlike the rough Fereldan accent, or the overly-stiff and 'refined' Orlesian one.

"I've heard much, Lord Trevelyan. It's a pleasure to meet you at last."

"Nay. The pleasure is mine, Lady Montilyet."

Cullen chuckled; Leliana smiled. "Huh. You never bowed that low to me, Ser!" exclaimed Cullen at the effect the ambassador had on the Herald. Max felt his ears burn. Cassandra stepped forward before the jesting could gain momentum, cutting it off. "Now that Lady Montilyet is here..." she looked at Max, jerking her chin at his hand. "Does it trouble you?"

Max wondered at the steel in Cassandra's voice. But he held his hand up, tugging the glove off. "No, Seeker. Not since closing that rift." Cullen and Lady Montilyet peered with fascination at his hand, the slash on his palm glowing slightly. "I wish I can be rid of it, though. But I suppose that's not an option, this sort of magic."

"We have need of it yet, Maxwell. Do not be too hasty."

"So you have mentioned, Cassandra."

The Seeker adjusted a small chess piece on the map, a small wooden soldier bearing a shield and sword. "What's important is that it's now stable, as is the Breach. What we've got is time, thanks to your efforts. It's something we all desperately need right now. And Solas believes a second attempt might succeed."

"If this thing," Max waved his hand. "Had more power. I've spoken to him; it's one of the basic laws of magic. It's impossible for this thing to close that Breach, unless... we have a whole lot more power. The same amount needed to open the Breach in the first place."

Cassandra nodded, her face a mask of seriousness. "We have a plan for that."

Leliana stepped forward. "We must approach the rebel mages for help."

Cullen interjected before Max could comprehend Leliana's statement, crossing his arms. "And I still disagree. The templars could serve just as well."

Cassandra sighed in frustration. "We need power, Commander. Enough magic poured into that mark -"

"Might destroy us all! Think, Cassandra! Templars could suppress the Breach, _weaken_ it, so -"

"Pure speculation," said Leliana harshly.

Cullen tapped his chestpiece, his voice low. "I was a templar. I know what they're capable of."

Max had a feeling this was a discussion they've have had in the past few days, most likely when he was unconscious. Lady Montilyet raised her pen, her words stilling them. "Unfortunately, neither group will even speak to us yet. The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition, and you," she looked at Max. "Specifically."

"Why am I not surprised?" Max shook his head. Cullen turned his frown on the ambassador. "Shouldn't they be busy arguing over who's going to become Divine?"

"Indeed, Commander, but they have a more... _pressing_ issue at present." She turned back to Max. "Some are calling you the 'Herald of Andraste,' and that frightens the Chantry. The remaining clerics have declared it blasphemy, and we," she pointed at each of them in turn, "Heretics. For harboring you."

Cassandra made a sound of disgust. "Chancellor Roderick's doing, no doubt."

"With the Chantry openly opposing us, our options are... limited. Hence, approaching the mages or the templars for help is currently out of the question."

"The Herald of Andraste..." Cullen mused, his frown dissolving as he glanced at Max. "How do you feel about that?"

"Honestly, Commander? I'm no Herald of anything, Andraste in particular. It's unsettling, people automatically foisting a title I don't approve of onto me."

"Heh. That's something you and the Chantry finally have in common, I suppose, being uncomfortable with the whole thing," said Cullen dryly. "Cassandra told me about your... disagreements with the Chantry."

Max groaned aloud. Why was details of his personal life being spilled all over the place? "Why isn't anyone more concerned about the Breach? The real threat?" he managed to ask, the familiar frustration bubbling to the surface once more.

"Oh, they _do_ know it's a threat. They just don't think _we_ can stop it," replied Cullen, the mirth gone from his eyes, his voice turning bitter.

"The Chantry is telling everyone you'll make it worse," added Lady Montilyet.

Max pinched the bridge of his nose. Damned Chantry. He opened his eyes when Leliana spoke, her voice soft, as if in thought. "There is something we can do. A Chantry cleric by the name of Mother Giselle has asked to speak to you in person."

"And why would I want to speak to her, Leliana? After what Lady Montilyet had just said about the Chantry? Me, a heretic?"

"I understand she's the reasonable sort," replied Leliana calmly, clasping her hands behind her back. "Perhaps she does not agree with her Sisters. In addition, she is not far, and knows those involved far better than I. Her assistance could be invaluable."

"Where is this Mother Giselle, Leliana?" queried Cassandra. She sounded relieved.

"She is tending to the wounded in the Hinterlands, near Redcliffe," Leliana pointed at a spot on the map, tracing a path with her finger.

Max studied the map. "Hm. Better than sitting around doing nothing, I suppose, not with the mages and the templars out of reach at the moment."

"While you're there, Lord Trevelyan, look for opportunities to expand the Inquisition's influence. I know, I know," he said, raising his mailed hands up. "But to have the Herald himself spreading the word of the Inquisition..."

"Commander Cullen's words ring true, My Lord," agreed Lady Montilyet. "We need agents to extend our reach beyond this valley, and you're better suited than anyone to recruit them."

Once again, Max felt that tug, that feeling of being pulled into an abyss. Once again, he was being pulled in a direction he did not want to go. But he'd promised that he would help close that damned Breach. And the Inquisition needed his help in becoming more powerful, so that it can help him do just that.

He sighed. He was here now, whether he liked it or not.

"Alright. I'll do it."

"In the meantime, let's think of other options. I won't leave this all to the Herald," said Cassandra, dipping her head at Max. Max felt a sudden surge of gratitude towards the Seeker. Days ago, she wanted to kill him; now, she was helping to ease his the burden of his unwanted title; any animosity he had towards Cassandra evaporated at that announcement. "Thank you, Seeker."

She smiled crookedly at him. "Well, let's get started, shall we? Leliana, send word to this... Mother Giselle. We're on our way."

* * *

 _She sat at the base of her favorite tree, slanted sunlight and the shadows of leaves playing across the open book in her lap, her fair skin, her jet-black hair, which tumbled untidily over her shoulders, untied, as she always did when she came to read in the garden. He knew her habits, the way she bit her lip when she came to a particularly intriguing part in the story; the way she lay back against the trunk, eyes unfocused as she imagined the scene in her mind; the way she flicked a finger irritably at an inquisitive fly who seemed to wonder who this lovely lady in this beautiful garden was._

 _She was a mage. A formidable one, at the tender age of nineteen, three years older than he was. She was smothered by her parents, as any noble parents would on their firstborn, the heir to their House, their legacy. She was an oddity amongst the mages in her local Circle in that she wholeheartedly embraced the restrictions imposed upon them, cooperating well with the local templars, which made her more approachable than most people on either side of the mage-templar divide._

 _That was why she was given special leave to return to the Trevelyan household during the weekends._

 _He knew her well. Very. It was during times like these, when she was home, that he would perch himself in a tree in the garden, and watch her from afar, a smile on his face. She was still safe, still sane, after her Harrowing; that was enough reason for him to smile. Evelyn was a strong girl, a strong woman, a quality that elevated her above all the other foppish, limp-wristed nobles in Ostwick, made even more remarkable in that she was a mage. And boy, she did not take shit from anyone; he'd seen more people frozen solid because they'd criticized mages in front of her, to her face, than apples on the trees in the summer._

 _He moved silently, the grass soft beneath his feet._

 _He remembered when she was a child. Young, naive, in the ways of the world. Huge blue eyes that blazed with a curiosity that only grew with the years, the extensive Trevelyan library feeding her mind. He'd never seen her anywhere without a thick tome tucked under her arm, or in her deceptively delicate fingers, her eyes moving with a speed that only experienced readers had, dancing across the page, drinking in the flowing script. Many a time he found himself marveling at Evelyn's voracity for knowledge, to be in the know, to randomly pull facts and quotes from famous figure past out of the air, lending weight to whatever topic she was speaking about at the moment._

 _He made himself comfortable in the branch above her. She hadn't heard him, turning the page. She still wore that scent he'd bought for her, a gift for her sixteenth birthday. He was glad she still thought of him, writing letters to him, missing him, even as everyone else seemed to want to maintain a very respectable distance from him. She was the one true friend he had growing up, his only confidante in the cruel world of nobility, his pillar of strength, the only one in the world who did not judge his actions. And she leaned on him too, the past few years, every bit as tired as he was of the game, but keeping the charade up; it was the way of things in this world. But where he had the freedom to rebel, she did not, as heir of House Trevelyan; one thing he hated, seeing her going through the motions without a choice in the matter._

 _He turned the acorn over in his fingers, skin rough from handling a sword and bow daily for three years. He aimed carefully and dropped it, the tiny cone landing neatly in between the pages of the book._

 _She gasped and looked up. "Max?" Her face broke into a big smile as he gave her a slight wave. "Hey, Eve."_

 _She made to get up, but he motioned her to sit. "I'm only here for a while, Eve. Just wanted to say goodbye."_

 _Her brow furrowed at his words. "What do you mean, Max? Have you... aren't you supposed to be training?"_

 _He shook his head. "Got kicked out this morning. And I might have done something to a prick who deserved it, but the powers-that-be won't see it that way."_

 _She knew him to be less diplomatic than she was, and was prone to bursts of anger at injustices. But his cryptic line only deepened her frown as she settled back against the trunk, eyes on the distant Trevelyan manor as she spoke. "Max, did you do something you'll regret?"_

 _"No. Don't worry, Eve, I didn't kill anyone, if you're wondering. I just taught someone a lesson he would never forget for a while. But uh... let's just say his family might seek... retribution against certain individuals who are gifted in the arcane arts."_

 _She sighed audibly. "You got kicked out because you beat up Arroughs, didn't you?"_

 _"Nope." The branch he was on creaked as he shifted, dropping silently to her side. "My dismissal papers were signed yesterday. I just left him a parting gift for all the pain he'd inflicted on everyone else."_

 _She took his hand in hers gently, inspecting the glorious bruises that adorned his knuckles. She passed a hand above them, magic dancing between her fingers; the bruises began to fade. "You know, Max, one day that temper of yours is going to get you into trouble."_

 _He shrugged. "Better me than anyone else who didn't deserve it."_

 _She looked into his eyes, blue that matched her own. "I suppose they're sending templars over to the house now, aren't they? Along with some guardsmen?"_

 _"It's a safe bet. I'm leaving Ostwick today. Now. Tell Mother I'm sorry I couldn't see her before I left."_

 _"But where would you go?"_

 _"I've got a contact in the templars; he set me up with some friends of his, a roving band of adventurers. Not mercenaries," he added hurriedly, noting that Evelyn was about to protest._

 _Eve's features softened. "Well, if you have it all figured out, then..." She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close. "Take care of yourself, baby brother," she whispered into his ear. "Don't worry, I won't tell them anything."_

 _"I know you wouldn't, sis."_


End file.
